Doctors of Empire: Medical and Cultural Encounters between Imperial Germany and Meiji Japan 9781442660472

In Doctors of Empire, Hoi-eun Kim recounts the story of the almost 1,200 Japanese medical students who rushed to German

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Doctors of Empire: Medical and Cultural Encounters between Imperial Germany and Meiji Japan
 9781442660472

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DOCTORS OF EMPIRE

German and European Studies General Editor: Rebecca Wittmann

Doctors of Empire Medical and Cultural Encounters between Imperial Germany and Meiji Japan

HOI-EUN KIM

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

© University of Toronto Press 2014 Toronto Buffalo London www.utppublishing.com Printed in the U.S.A. isbn 978-1-4426-4440-3

Printed on acid-free, 100% post-consumer recycled paper with vegetable-based inks.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Kim, Hoi-eun, 1976–, author Doctors of empire: medical and cultural encounters between imperial Germany and Meiji Japan / Hoi-eun Kim. (German and European studies) Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-1-4426-4440-3 (bound) 1. Medicine – Japan – International cooperation – History – 19th century. 2. Medicine – Germany – International cooperation – History – 19th century. 3. Medicine – Japan – History – 19th century. 4. Medicine – Germany – History – 19th century. 5. Physicians – Japan – History – 19th century. 6. Physicians – Germany – History – 19th century. 7. Medical education – Japan – History – 19th century. 8. Medical education – Germany – History – 19th century. 9. Japan – Relations – Germany – History – 19th century. 10. Germany – Relations – Japan – History – 19th century. 11. Japan – History – Meiji period, 1868-1912. I. Title. II. Series: German and European studies r624.k54 2014   610.95209'034   c2014-901502-x

University of Toronto Press acknowledges that the publication of this book was in part made possible by the generosity of the Melbern G. Glasscock Center for Humanities Research at Texas A&M University. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing ­program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council, an agency of the Government of Ontario.

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for its publishing activities.

To my family

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Contents

List of Illustrations  ix Acknowledgments  xi A Note on Names and the Romanization of Japanese Language  xv Introduction: Weaving Germany and Japan together with the Thread of Medical Science  3 1 Same Bed, Different Dreams  16 2 Borrowed Hands: German Physicians’ Teaching of Medical Education in Meiji Japan  31 3 Socialized Intellect: Intellectual and Communal Journeys of Japanese Doctors in Germany  54 4 Bedazzled and Bewildered: Cultural Journeys of Japanese Students in Germany  88 5 Japan through the Stethoscope: German Physicians as Anthropologists of Meiji Japan  102 6 Promises and Perils of Encounters: Influences of German Medicine in Japan  123 Epilogue: Fatal Affinities? The Long-term Legacies of German–Japanese Medical Relations  149 Notes  163 Selected Bibliography  215

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Illustrations

0.1 The busts of Erwin Baelz (left) and Julius Scriba. Inside the ­campus of the University of Tokyo.  4 2.1 Leopold Müller with his students at Tokyo Medical School, July 1875. 41 2.2 Erwin Baelz (wearing hat) with his students in July 1880. 49 3.1 Japanese attendees of the Tenth International Medical ­Congress in Berlin in August 1890. 73 3.2 Marie von Lagerström with her Japanese lodgers. 78 3.3 An early summer outing of Wa-doku-kai in Schlachtensee, 28 June 1901. 84 3.4 The gathering of the Nippon Club in honour of the visit of Itō Hirobumi, 6 December 1901. 85 4.1 Mori Rintarō, 1899.  89 5.1 Leopold Müller dressed as an explorer with a hat. In Japan, ca. 1875. 110 6.1 Robert Koch in Nagoya, Japan, 30 July 1908. 125 6.2 Japanese medical doctors in Berlin in 1903. 137 7.1 Berlin-Bier-Gesellschaft (Berlin Bakushu-Kai) of 1898. 159

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Acknowledgments

Writing acknowledgments is counting blessings. As a Korean student of modern German and Japanese history, teaching and researching in the United States, I have accrued at least quadruple the amount of debt of gratitude to many terrific teachers, friends, and family members on both sides of the Atlantic and of the Pacific than an ordinary historian would do. As I studied the influences of German doctors on their Japanese medical students, I have been constantly reminded of how fortunate I  was to have a chance to study at Harvard with such wonderful teachers as Bernard Bailyn, Peter E. Gordon, Mary Lewis, Michael McCormick, and Steven Ozment. David Blackbourn, my Doktorvater, mentor, and friend, deserves special recognition. From its very inception to the final fruition of this transnational project, David has always been there, with his keen historical insights, unsurpassed in both depth and breadth, and his unwavering support, to guide me and inspire me. Equally helpful was Andrew Gordon, whose kind encouragement that I could provide a unique perspective to modern Japanese history sustained me to continue my prolonged research project. Likewise, Charlie Maier taught me the importance of linking my pursuit of specificities to bigger historical questions. Under the sizzling heat in Texas that I came to love over the years, my friends, colleagues, and students at Texas A&M provided a nurturing environment for me to grow as a teacher and scholar. This space does not allow me to cite everyone, but Dale Baum, Cynthia Bouton, Walter Buenger, Jonathan Coopersmith, Olga Dror, Chester Dunning, Walter Kamphoefner, Andrew Kirkendall, Arnie Krammer, John Lenihan,

xii Acknowledgments

Brian Linn, Robert Resch, Jim Rosenheim, Adam Seipp, David Vaught, and Di Wang showed their enthusiasm in one way or the other. Both in Germany and in Japan, I enjoyed warm hospitality from several prominent scholars. Johanna Bleker and Gerhard Krebs kindly provided essential logistical help during my initial archival research in Berlin in 2002–3, while Wolfgang U. Eckart became my adviser during my visit to his institute in Heidelberg in 2009. Ilona Marz, who previously published on German–Japanese exchange in dental medicine, graciously shared her masterly knowledge of Berlin archives. In Tokyo, Ichinokawa Yasutaka of the University of Tokyo generously agreed to become my host adviser twice, first in 2004–5 and again in 2009–11. His friendship and intellectual vigour became an anchoring point for me in Tokyo. Both in Germany and in Japan, I am also indebted to the staff of various libraries and archives who assisted me in finding materials for this book. Over the years, I have learned tremendously from fellow historians in various academic settings. I am especially grateful to Marjan Boogert, Timothy Brown, Sei Jeong Chin, David Ciarlo, Sebastian Conrad, Evan Dawley, Walter Demel, Benjamin Elman, Rusty Gates, Sheldon Garon, Andrea Germer, Erik Grimmer-Solem, Harry Harootunian, Iijima Wataru, William Johnston, Jungwon Kim, Michael Kim, Sang-Hyun Kim, Rotem Kowner, Lee Jong-Chan, You Jae Lee, Lim Jie-Hyun, Alf Lüdtke, Micah Muscolini, Nagashima Takeshi, Yoichi Nakano, Bradley Naranch, Christian Oberländer, Robert Oppenheim, Sumiko Otsubo, Park Yunjae, Devin Pendas, Sven Saaler, Wolfgang Schwentker, Christian Spang, Suzuki Akihito, Maiken Umbach, Joseph Wiecentowski, Jonathan Zatlin, Daniel Ziblatt, and Andrew Zimmerman. Equally foundational was my time with teachers at Seoul National University as an undergraduate student of Western history, and I am thankful to Ahn Byung Jik, Bae Youngsoo, Choi Kab-soo, Hahn Jeong Sook, Jou Kyung Chul, Lee Inho, Oh In-Sok, and Park Jihang for teaching me how to read carefully and express myself cogently. Young-sun Hong and Larry Frohman deserve a separate paragraph. At every step of my professional development as a historian, Young-sun, who has been a heroine to me by proving unequivocally that Koreans can also succeed as modern German historians, did not hesitate to provide her candid opinions and expertise. It was Larry who came up with the title of this book, “Doctors of Empire.” Sharing Korean dishes at a small restaurant in Oakland, California, in 2010, Larry serendipitously suggested this apt title, for which I am immensely grateful.

Acknowledgments xiii

Friends in the four corners of the world made this otherwise solitary pursuit of researching and writing a pleasant one. I would like to thank Ahn Taehyung, Cho Jun Hee, Choi Yongchan, Robert Cliver, Jennifer Davis, Carrie Endries, Han Seung Yeun, Chris Hilliard, Hwang Chan Hee, Jang Jongbeom, Kim Youngsoo, Park Joon Hyung, Park Sung Yeon, Park Sung-hyun, Lee Dongki, Lee Eungyung, Lee Junghwan, Kris Manjapra, John Romano, Anthony Smith, and Katja Zelljadt. My extended academic sojourn in Boston, Berlin, Heidelberg, and Tokyo would not have been possible without generous financial support from the following institutions, of which I am appreciative: the German Academic Exchange Service, the Melbern G. Glasscock Center for Humanities Research at Texas A&M University, the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science, the Korea Foundation for Advanced Studies, the Krupp Foundation, the Minda de Gunzburg Center for European Studies of Harvard University, and the Reischauer Institute of Japanese Studies of Harvard University. I was also fortunate to have the very best editorial team one can hope for. Richard Ratzlaff, with his superb editorial acumen, patience, and understanding, shepherded this project, while Frances Mundy and Stephen Shapiro expertly turned the manuscript into a book. I am also grateful to the two anonymous readers who not only appreciated the value of a transnational history of German-Japanese medical and cultural interaction, but also provided astute and perceptive suggestions that made this manuscript a much better one. Noël Norcross, my friend and copy-editor, carefully read all my chapters and provided unrivalled insights. Writing and researching of course would have been meaningless without the love and sacrifice of my family. Accompanying an itinerant student of history trotting to the four corners of the globe, my wife Young-Ji had to learn English, German, and Japanese and simultaneously become a packing and moving expert, dragging those astoundingly large, greyish duffle bags full of obscure books and articles through numerous airports. I am grateful for her sacrifice, love, and companionship. In the course of writing this book, Noah and Yunah joined our family. I cannot express enough the love and joy they brought to me. Becoming a father myself, I am reminded of how blissful it is to have parents who kneel down every morning to pray for their children. From my father, Kim Sung-young, I learned to love books, to think historically, and not to despair under any circumstances. From my mother, Yuk Ae-hwoa, in turn, I learned the virtues of selflessness, sacrifice, and

xiv Acknowledgments

dedication, all of which remain as the most seminal lessons of my life. I am equally grateful to my parents-in-law, Son Junik and Song Chunhi, for their unreserved love, support, and prayers. Parts of chapter 5 have previously appeared in the following book chapters and are reproduced here with permission, for which I thank their publishers and editors: “Measuring Asian-ness: Erwin Baelz’s Anthropological Expeditions in Fin-de-siècle Korea,” in Mary Rhiel and Veronika Fuechter, eds., Imagining Germany Imagining Asia: Essays in Asian-German Studies (Rochester: Camden House, 2013), 173–85; “Anatomically Speaking: The Kubo Incident and the Paradox of Race in Colonial Korea,” in Rotem Kowner and Walter Demel, eds., Race and Racism in Modern East Asia: Western and Eastern Constructions (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 411–30; “Imaginary Terrain of German Orientalism: The Image of Japan in Die Gartenlaube, 1854–1902,” in Lee M. Roberts, ed., Germany and the Imagined East (Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2005), 184–203.

A Note on Names and the Romanization of Japanese Language

I have followed the convention of using Asian names in their own traditional order: a surname first, followed by a given name. Exceptions are when Asian authors published their works in Western languages and put their names in the Western order. As to the romanization of Japanese language, I am using the modified Hepburn system.

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DOCTORS OF EMPIRE

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Introduction

Weaving Germany and Japan Together with the Thread of Medical Science

The fourth of April 1907 was an unusually fine spring day on the campus of Tokyo Imperial University, the first and most prestigious modern institution of higher education in Japan. There, countless German and Japanese national flags of all sizes waved brilliantly before the gothic-style buildings of the Faculty of Medicine. On the athletic field adjacent to the buildings, two gigantic tents had been set up as a banquet venue where many of the academic, political, and diplomatic dignitaries of Tokyo cheerfully toasted each other with beer and sake. What had brought them all together on this festive afternoon was the unveiling of the bronze busts of Doctors Erwin Baelz (1849–1913) and Julius Scriba (1848–1905), German physicians who had served as professors of medicine at Tokyo Imperial University for over a quartercentury. University president Hamao Arata gave a customary welcome greeting, which was followed by a speech by the special guest of the day, German ambassador Alfons Mumm von Schwarzenstein.1 The climax of the event, however, was reserved for Aoyama Tanemichi (1859–1917), dean of the Faculty of Medicine, who delivered the celebratory address of the day. In fluent German, Aoyama characterized the German–Japanese relations in the field of medicine in one sentence: “When it comes to medical science, our nation is a German colony.”2 Reading this obsequious proclamation that inscribed this otherwise ordinary event in history, one might be tempted to assume that the occupant of the highest academic position for a physician in Japan might well have been demonstrating famed Japanese humility to please his German guests. Indeed, as the daily newspaper Yomiuri shinbun reported, not everyone attending the ceremony was happy with this seemingly subservient assessment; evidently the word “colony” (shokuminchi

4  Doctors of Empire

The busts of Erwin Baelz (left) and Julius Scriba on the campus of the University of Tokyo.

as it was reported in the newspaper) must have irritated the pride of some of the attendees who were imbibing the air of the “age of empire” to which Japan had become a recent contributor. Admittedly, Japan was never a German colony even in the broadest definition of the word. But, when we apply it to the German domination of medical science in Japan from the opening of the country in the midnineteenth century to the early part of the twentieth century, Aoyama’s laconic yet declaratory remark was an understatement. By the second decade of the Meiji era (1868–1912), all significant higher education in medical science in Japan was conducted entirely in the German language, and with few exceptions, those who wanted to refine their medical prowess went to Germany. It was in Germany that Gotō Shinpei (1857–1929), a physician and chief civil administrator of the Governor’s

Introduction  5

Office in Taiwan, known for his development of Taiwan as a laboratory of modernity, learned “scientific colonialism.”3 It was again in Germany where Mori Rintarō (1862–1922), the future surgeon general of the Imperial Army of Japan, better known by his pen name Mori Ōgai, completed four years of research on military hygiene from 1884 to 1888.4 Back in Japan, the turn-of-the-century scholarly debates on the causes and treatments of infectious and chronic diseases, from beriberi (or “kakke” as it was called in Japan) to cholera to tuberculosis, revolved around different camps of German-educated Japanese physicians regurgitating what had already been discussed in Germany. On a more mundane level, the prestige of German medicine was such that it produced numerous charlatans in Japan who falsely claimed to have studied with such prestigious German medical giants as Rudolf Virchow and Robert Koch. In other words, as Erwin Baelz claimed at the Tokyo Medical Congress of April 1902, medicine in Japan was more German than it was in Germany in many ways.5 At the centre of this ‘Germanization’ of medicine in Japan were the main protagonists of this book – doctors of empire who criss-crossed between Germany and Japan during the critical years of the developments of both countries as nation states and empires. Between 1868 and 1914, as many as twelve hundred Japanese medical students flocked to German cities, including Berlin, Munich, Heidelberg, and Freiburg, to learn cutting-edge knowledge from the world leaders in medicine, while a dozen German physicians invited to Japan as instructors helped to transform Japan’s medical institutions and education. These physicians were modernizers, propelling Japan into global modernity through medical science, in both their own minds and those of the Japanese people. They were also self-proclaimed and often professionally trained anthropologists who chronicled the different customs, cultures, and peoples of their respective countries of sojourn with the precision of a scalpel. Why and how did Germany and Japan become so intertwined with each other in the field of medicine? What roles did Germanized medicine play in the development of the modern medical system in Japan and subsequently in the expansion of the Japanese empire? Furthermore, what was the nature of the cross-cultural encounters of these physicians in Japan and Germany? More important, what does this medical connection tell us about the nature of German engagement with East Asia and ultimately the so-called peculiarities of the German-Japanese path to modernity? These are the questions that this exploration of

6  Doctors of Empire

unprecedented transnational medical and anthropological encounters attempts to answer by following the footsteps and unearthing the legacies of almost twelve hundred Japanese medical students and a dozen German physicians. By expanding and redefining the boundaries of both modern Germany and modern Japan, the answers that I provide in this book find that the stories of Japanese physicians in Germany were as much a part of German history as those of German physicians in Japan were a part of Japanese history. German-Japanese Connections in Historiography The close connection between Germany and Japan in the modern era has long generated a fair amount of scholarly research. Of this growing body of literature,6 political and diplomatic relations from the midnineteenth century that eventually culminated in the conclusion of the Tripartite Pact in 1940 have, quite understandably, dominated scholarly attention.7 Two main themes run through these works. On the one hand, citing such names as Karl Friedrich Hermann Roessler, a legal adviser to the Japanese government from 1878 to 1888, and Germanophile politicians Inoue Kowashi, Katsura Tarō, and Yamagata Aritomo, historians have emphasized the pivotal influence of a few Germans in the establishment of a modern constitution and an army in Japan.8 In this “diffusionist” account of German-Japanese entanglement that elevates Germany high on the pedestal of European modernity, Japan is regarded as an avatar of Germany or, as contemporaries called it, “the Prussia of Asia,” diligently learning from her European teacher, whether the subject was architecture or music. This is a classic refrain of a Eurocentric account where “modernity or capitalism look … as something that became global over time, by originating in one place (Europe) and then spreading outside it.”9 Equally prominent are simple comparative studies based on the abstract concept of modernization theory, frequently pointing to the rather ominous structural parallels between the two countries.10 According to this clichéd tale of rapid success and equally remarkable systematic failure, both Germany and Japan suffered from the political, cultural, and moral consequences of late state-sponsored industrial modernization, which led them down parallel developmental paths leading to authoritarian or fascist rule at home, racial or ethnic nationalism, and military aggression.

Introduction  7

Often, these diffusionist and developmental schemes are brought together to create a sweeping exceptionalist narrative of German and Japanese passage into modernity. A telling example would be the words of Bernd Martin, one of the most prolific scholars of German–Japanese relations: Japanese modernization followed two divergent paths which would not go together. Modern technical training, encouraged by the British and Americans, and a restorative social order and ideology, as advised by the Germans, often caused conflict within individuals. The conduct of modern life and labour frequently clashed with premodern thinking and traditional social habits … The only way out of this dilemma, which had been caused at least partly by a dual and incoherent modernization programme, seemed to be a policy of expansion on the Asian mainland. The unholy alliance between Hitler’s Germany and the Tenno’s Empire, which led the world into the most devastating war, resulted far more from a misguided conception of modernization than from the international situation.11

Such historians seem to have been untouched by the crumbling of the “aberration” theory (more commonly known as the Sonderweg thesis) in recent scholarship of both modern German and Japanese history in the last quarter-century.12 To them, the deterioration of the relationship between the two countries at the turn of the century – that is, the German participation in the Triple Intervention in 1895 against the Japanese imperialist ambition in China; the subsequent formation of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance in 1902; and, finally, the Japanese participation in the First World War against Germany in 1914 – was just a sign of transitory growing pains; after all, Germany and Japan were destined to come together because of their shared “fatal affinities.”13 Seen through this lens of exceptionalism, medical science was also nothing more than another finalized product that Japan slavishly copied from Germany, and the disastrous effect of the entanglement manifested itself most gruesomely in the medicalized killings in Auschwitz and the human experiments conducted by Japanese Unit 731 in Manchuria in the 1940s.14 Of course, it would be unfair to claim that all previous scholarship on the German-Japanese medical connection invariably points to these rather ominous and strikingly similar later developments from the exceptionalist perspective. Rather, in explicating various aspects of the

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medical relationship between Germany and Japan, those works that take the medical connection at the heart of their analysis suffer from another set of limitations.15 First of all, most of the previous works predominantly describe only one side of this intertwined story of the two countries, mostly concentrating on the development wrought by German doctors in Japan.16 In turn, in studying either German doctors in Japan or Japanese medical students in Germany, previous scholars have concerned themselves only with the achievements and activities of a few elite doctors, neglecting the much broader scale and scope of engagements between the two countries.17 Last but not least, previous historians failed to use the medical connection as a heuristic tool into broader themes of modern German and modern Japanese history; they did not adequately acknowledge that exchanges in the field of medical science are at the same time inter-cultural contacts wherein certain cultural assumptions and prejudices are clearly revealed. Transnational, Reciprocal, and Prosopographical Against the simplified teleological reading of history wherein medical science is but another area where Germany imprinted its birthmark onto Japan, this book actively employs three distinct yet closely related analytical tools: transnational history,18 postcolonial research, and double prosopography. First of all, to redress the lopsided view of German-Japanese engagement and to emphasize the interconnectedness of the world in the age of global modernity,19 the present analysis adopts a transnational perspective.20 Unlike conventional historical research, which is often restricted to the geographical, political, and cultural confines of the nation state or relies heavily on simple comparative studies – thus subconsciously or consciously accepting the centrality of the nation state as a unit of analysis and the concomitant hierarchy of nation states – this book transcends such limitations by criss-crossing the national boundaries of Germany and Japan and by paying attention to the active connections, flow of ideas, and movements of people between the two countries. Prioritizing the Vernetzung (or link) cutting across nation states means a restorative break from the habit of assigning nation states an imag­ inary space in a developmental pathway, which historian Sebastian Conrad termed the “temporalization of space”21 and in practice what made Germany and Japan look backward or pre-modern. It also signifies the discovery of what Japanese historian Harry Harootunian called

Introduction  9

“co-existing or co-eval modernity,” where “Japan’s modernity … was … an inflection of a larger global process,” sharing “the same historical temporality of modernity found elsewhere in Europe and the United States.”22 Practising transnational history does not mean that I am unaware or uncritical of its limitations.23 Despite their promise to recast the field of modern German and Japanese history by overcoming the myopia of nation-state-based historical analysis, what scholars have produced, at least in the last ten years, has rarely gone beyond traditional comparative history and even more rarely beyond the geographical confines of, respectively, central Europe and east Asia, with a few notable exceptions.24 Moreover, in trying to write about “networks,” historians have often refused to acknowledge the centripetal force of the modern nation state, as both a territorial and a cultural unit. Conscious of these limitations, I emphasize in this book that both German physicians and Japanese medical students were bearers of political, cultural, and social value systems specific to certain national conditions in a given historical moment. No matter how fluid and porous those value systems and the boundaries that contained them might appear to have been in retrospect, German and Japanese physicians were unmistakably conscious of the newly emerging and concurrently consolidating nation states and empires. Therefore, to use the apt words of Charles S. Maier, in trying to analyse networks, this book writes about “nodal points as well as strings between them”;25 in the present analysis, I describe the impact that the multifaceted encounters surrounding medical science had on both Germany and Japan. The operative word in the previous sentence is “both.” This book is not another exemplar of incorporating Asia into the realm of German history for the sake of displaying the global dimension of German history. I ask not only what Japan meant to Germany, but also what Germany and its legacy meant to Japan and her colonies.26 In this respect, inextricably intertwined with my criticism of the transnational approach that is overly preoccupied with network, connection, and movement is my emphasis on reciprocity, a concept that has been rehashed over and over on a theoretical level but rarely implemented in actual historical research for various reasons, be they linguistic difficulties or the persistence of Eurocentrism. Here one may argue that the German–Japanese relations of the late nineteenth century were not those of two countries of equal stature but ones that bear the indelible imprint of asymmetrical power relations. But those who emphasize

10  Doctors of Empire

the mentor–mentee relations between Germany and Japan should also remember that unequal power relations do not preclude reciprocity. After all, what historical relations can we find that were perfectly symmetrical? Therefore, instead of giving credence to previous studies that portray Japan and her inhabitants as a mere object or nameless masses onto which Germans projected their Oriental imagination, I try to restore the historical agency of the Japanese people, both in imagining and observing their Western counterparts, and in learning and developing modern medical science in Germany and Japan. In other words, this book makes it clear that “German” medicine was not an end product completed in Germany and then exported to Japan, but rather in a constant process of making and unmaking, and that the scientific presence and endeavours of Japanese physicians both in Germany and Japan were an integral part of that process. Resuscitating the role of human agency in historical research is ­directly related to the adoption of double prosopography as a methodology.27 According to historian Lawrence Stone, prosopography specifically refers to “the investigation of the common background characteristics of a group of actors in history by means of a collective study of their lives.”28 This methodology is especially pertinent to the study of German physicians and Japanese medical students because they shared a temporal-spatial commonality, not to mention the thematic commonality of medical science. Of course, a prosopographical approach cannot function as a cure-all methodology for explaining the complexity of historical forces; it has also often been criticized for paying disproportionate attention to societal elites or to so-called founding fathers, thus negating the role of ordinary people, a trend that also appeared in the previous studies of German and Japanese doctors. Conscious of this potential drawback, throughout this book I seek to move beyond the “great men” narratives in Japanese historiography by incorporating the kaleidoscopic lives of ordinary or less-heroic Japanese medical students in Germany. Although these medical men may not have left indelible footprints in the history of Japanese medical science, they contributed to the medicalization of broader Japanese society by moving into various localities throughout the Japanese archipelago and practising modern medicine at the local level. Even when some of them did not make any contribution at all, their experiences in Germany still tell us about the subaltern existence of Orientals in imperial Germany. Thus, prosopography will help us in explicating the intricate webs of intellectual, social, and cultural ties between Germany and Japan, which are not easily

Introduction  11

discernible from the studies of institutions or atomized individuals that have long plagued the historiography of German–Japanese relations.29 Medicine and Empire By encapsulating the interactions between Germany and Japan in the colourful lives of both heroic and ordinary individuals who were deeply embedded in their respective cultures but attempted to transcend them, this book is the first comprehensive overview that historicizes the effects of German medicine in Japan from its inception to the pinnacle of its influence to its abrupt breakdown at the outbreak of the First World War. Discovering the centrality of medical science in German– Japanese relations illuminates a multitude of new perspectives on various issues of modern German and modern Japanese history. First and foremost, in revealing the inadequacy of colonialism and informal colonialism as a concept to elucidate the German-Japanese connection, this book prompts us to rethink both the nature of German engagement with East Asia in the age of empire and the theoretical frameworks used to describe it. In recent years, we have witnessed a dramatic increase in scholarly attention paid to German colonialism, a traditionally transient topic in modern German history mainly because the country’s short-lived age of empire, narrowly confined in its relatively minor colonial presence in Africa, the Pacific, and China, lasted only about three decades beginning in the 1880s. Inspired perhaps by their neighbouring colleagues in studies of French and British colonialism, however, a new generation of scholars of German colonialism has begun to paint an entirely new picture of German colonial experiments, starting with Germany’s expansion into and engagement with Africa and its cultural and social effects in the metropole of the empire.30 And quite naturally, historians are now beginning to expand the geographical scope of their work to include East Asia.31 But the unilateral application of the concept of colonialism or even informal empire to the case of East Asia has a serious pitfall – it leaves Japan, the only independent nation state in the region in the second half of the nineteenth century, out of the picture, other than treating it as a rival in the imperialist contention surrounding China and the southern Pacific. Two examples should suffice here. In his monumental work Medizin und Kolonialimperialismus: Deutschland, 1884–1945, which poignantly exposed the interdependence between medical science and German colonial expansion, Wolfgang U. Eckart only fleetingly touches

12  Doctors of Empire

upon the case of Japan.32 Similarly, one will be disappointed if looking for evidence of the German engagement with Japan in the finest work of historical sociology, George Steinmetz’s Devil’s Handwriting: Precoloniality and the German Colonial State in Qingdao, Samoa, and Southwest Africa.33 If neither the concept of colonialism nor that of informal imperialism can adequately explicate arguably the most significant German involvement with East Asia, how can we make sense of this entangled history in which Japan proudly and voluntarily claimed that she was a de facto colony of Germany? I maintain that historians of Germany and Japan need to pay renewed attention to the relatively neglected concept of “soft power.” Coined by political scientist Joseph S. Nye to prescribe a new mode of foreign policy to the United States after the end of the Cold War, soft power denotes “the ability to affect others to obtain the outcomes one wants through attraction rather than coercion or payment.”34 Soft power is not another tactical option that only strong, “hard powers” can wield. Instead, the strength of a nation state as a soft power depends more often than not upon its perceived weakness. In other words, the effectiveness of soft power is predominantly determined by the intended recipient rather than the initiator. Applied to the case of German involvement with Japan, we can see that the inadvertent success of Germany as a strong soft power in Japan was the result of the convergence of the ineptitude of German foreign policy, the perceived naivety of her political and military ambition in East Asia, and the voracious consumption of this image by the Japanese. This new perspective that I develop in the following chapters will allow us to see that German engagement with East Asia was much more extensive and transformative than a prolonged period of futile attempts narrowly centred in the concession in the Bay of Kiaochow with the port city of Qingdao as its epicentre. Speaking of imperialism, this book also calls for scholarly attention to the redeployment of German medicine and its brainchild anthropology by the Japanese in their overseas empire. Military hygiene and bacteriology, the two branches of modern medicine most valued by the Japanese government, functioned as “tools of empire” in the expansion of Japan into Taiwan, Korea, and China, while physical anthropology, the alter ego of German medicine, legitimized Japanese colonial ambitions in Asia. The convergence of medicine and imperial power politics, which historian Ruth Rogaski conceptualized as the expression of “hygienic modernity,” has attracted attention among historians of East Asia.35 But without chronicling the formative years of Japan’s own transition to medical modernity, a full understanding of hygienic modernity in

Introduction  13

China or Korea cannot be achieved. In short, by elucidating the German origin of Japanese medical science and its affiliate discipline of anthropology, this book provides a key to understanding the medical and hygienic modernity of Meiji Japan and Japan’s expanding empire. Moving attention from politics and military affairs to medical science as the central focus of the German-Japanese encounter, one cannot escape the question of the commonality between the medicalized killings in Auschwitz and the human experiments conducted by Japanese Unit 731, the biological weapons development team in the Japanese Kwantung Army, in Manchuria in the 1940s. Previous accounts have taken up two opposing views, revolving around the question of the nature of modernity. On the one hand, the Sonderweg camp regards German and Japanese medical atrocities as expressions of “feudal” mentalities, implying that medical science itself was not culpable. On the contrary, historians supporting the new practice of emphasizing the pathology of modernity in Germany and Japan argue that unbridled and misplaced belief in a medical utopia was the ultimate culprit for the atrocities committed in the name of science and empires.36 I argue in this book that neither perspective is sufficient in itself to explain a terrifying story of medical science gone awry in the Japanese empire. To begin with, German medicine cannot simply be reduced to “Nazi medicine.”37 If German medicine contains genocidal instincts, the connection between Germany and the United States was much deeper and more widespread, as we learned from Stefan Kühl’s book Nazi Connection: Eugenics, American Racism, and German National Socialism.38 Thus, we need to find out the peculiar historical context that enabled distinctively “German” elements of medical science as it was imagined, at least in the minds of Japanese physicians, to develop their violent potential. To put it differently, we need to answer in what ways the veneration of “research” as true science led to a fixation on the power of research in and of itself, not as a method to cure disease, and how this tendency in turn had a synergetic effect with the relatively strong proximity of Japanese physicians to administrative power in terms of personnel and resources. Structure This book is divided into three sections: Before, During, and After. The first section contains one chapter, “Same Bed, Different Dreams,” which discusses the personal, institutional, and state-level factors that led to the dispatch of German physicians to Japan and the formative impact

14  Doctors of Empire

of “Dutch Learning” of the late Tokugawa era (1600–1868), a spirited acquisition of Western knowledge by Japanese scholars through the Dutch trading outpost near Nagasaki. The second section contains four chapters that alternate geographically and thematically between Germany and Japan. Chapter 2, “Borrowed Hands,” traces the educational reforms enacted by three successive groups of German physicians and argues that their teachings initiated a qualitative transition to modern medical science in Meiji Japan. Shifting to Germany, chapter 3, “Socialized Intellect,” examines, in turn, the educational journeys of Japanese medical students and presents a prosopographical analysis of them. In this chapter, I also examine the subculture of the Japanese students in Berlin that they created in part through the publication of a German-language magazine for Japanese speakers and regular gatherings at the Japanese-German Society (Wa-Doku-Kai) and at informal Bierabende. The social aspect of Japanese student life in Germany is important to the discussion because these students continued to gather when they returned to Japan, and many of them became the founding fathers of modern Japanese medical science at universities and in the state bureaucracy. Chapter 4, “Bedazzled and Bewildered,” in turn discusses the struggles Japanese students had to endure in the world of racial hierarchies in Germany to assert their national and professional identity. Picking up the theme of cultural and anthropological encounter from the preceding chapter, chapter five, “Japan through the Stethoscope,” the final chapter of this section, discusses German physicians’ cultural encounters with Japa­ nese people and culture. Often trained as professional anthropologists, German physicians observed, chronicled, and criticized the headlong rush to modernity in Japan and the concomitant disappearance of “traditional” Japan. What they created, however, was not a simple mélange of impressions; using physical anthropology, German physicians elaborated on a racial theory of Asians, and the Meiji government exploited this scientific racism in its expansion into Asia. In the final section, chapter 6, “Promises and Perils of Encounter,” describes the social, political, and international ramifications of the Germanization of modern medicine in Japan. By using lesser-known episodes of Robert Koch’s 1908 visit to Japan, this chapter shows that the transmission of medical knowledge from Germany to Japan was never a seamless process, and its influences were not always beneficial to the Japanese people. Finally, the epilogue explores the long-term historical legacies of German-Japanese connections.

Introduction  15

By weaving Germany and Japan together with the thread of medical science, this book brings forth a new space and dimension of GermanJapanese connection in the modern world. The result is a transnational exploration moving back and forth between Berlin and Tokyo, following the path laid out collectively by more than a thousand Japanese and German physicians.

Chapter 1

Same Bed, Different Dreams

It was a hot and humid summer day in August 1871. Describing his first meeting with Japanese medical students at Tōkō [East College] of Daigaku1 in Tokyo, the predecessor of the prestigious Tokyo Imperial University, Leopold Müller, the first German army staff physician (Oberstabarzt) dispatched to Japan as a professor of medicine, recalls that he had the bizarre impression of entering a synagogue:2 In our first visit of the school, around 300 students were introduced to us; they were sitting in a series of halls with ten to sixteen students at a table, with each one having a hibachi (a small Japanese table heater) and a smoking pipe. These students were reading aloud from seemingly academic books, but they were reading different chapters, and the books were all in different languages. All of them were reading simultaneously in the wellknown oriental psalmic [psalmodirenden] manner.

It was not just this synagogue-style collective chant that puzzled Müller. Much to his dismay, Müller quickly realized that even the very best Japanese medical students – nineteen students out of the more than three hundred whom he examined on 31 August 1871 – were not adequately prepared in the basics of modern medical science such as anatomy and physiology. Astonished, Müller recounted that “not one of them could describe the circulation of the blood … Not one was able to distinguish the right from the left thigh and explain the reason for his choice.”3 The quality of medical students in Japan was so poor that Müller, along with fellow teacher Theodor Hoffmann, had to eliminate more than 80 per cent of the initial 300-plus Japanese medical students at Tōkō within four months of their arrival.4 It was a natural progression of

Same Bed, Different Dreams  17

events given Müller’s unpleasant realization that an unbridgeable epistemological gap existed between him and his Japanese students in envisioning medical science and knowledge. Merely three decades after Müller’s observation, however, we encounter a strikingly different picture of Japanese physicians. In his 1906 book dedicated to the medical officers of the Japanese Imperial Army, Louis Livingstone Seaman, an American surgeon-major and foreign military attaché to the Second Imperial Army of Japan, vividly expressed his astonishment at witnessing the remarkable medical feats of the Japanese army physicians during the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5. “An Oriental, almond-eyed race, which we have hitherto patronized,”5 wrote Seaman, “takes equal rank with Occidental countries in the practice of medicine, and in activity and success in certain fields of original research, especially in bacteriology and pathology, while in the application of practical sanitation in her army she occupies the vanguard of the world.”6 The pre-eminent position of Japan in military hygiene was thanks to the adoption by the Japanese army of cutting-edge hygienic facilities such as a state-of-the-art water-testing outfit, microscopes, and even a portable X-ray apparatus that enabled Japanese doctors to pinpoint their diagnosis.7 “Malaria is malaria and typhoid is typhoid in the Japanese army, and not ‘Fever,’ caused by inappropriate and irritating rations, because every case there is differentiated under the microscope and otherwise. Diseases are not guessed at,” wrote Seaman.8 The statistics also proved his observation of this drastic reduction of the mortality rate from disease. In the 1898 Spanish-American War, for instance, the ratio was fourteen deaths from disease to one from bullets for the United States’ army. In contrast, for every four Japanese soldiers who died from bullets in the Russo-Japanese War, only one soldier died from disease.9 In the eyes of Seaman, the sudden and unexpected victory of “this Oriental, almond-eyed race” in the Russo-Japanese War was the victory of the Japanese army physicians. From the contrasting observations of two army surgeons, Müller and Seaman, it becomes clear that the Japanese medical profession completely transformed itself within a short span of thirty years. How can this quick but seismic transformation of the quality of physicians and medical science of Meiji Japan be explained? Where can the initial starting point and source of these modern medical innovations and thoughts be located? One of the central arguments of this book is that the teaching of German physicians in Meiji Japan initiated a qualitative transition to modern medical science in this island nation of the Far East.

18  Doctors of Empire

From 1871, with Leopold Müller as the first German teacher in Tokyo, to roughly 1914, a stream of German doctors – a total of thirty-nine including seven in Deutsches Marinelazarett in Yokohama – came to Japan mostly in official capacities but some with personal initiatives.10 Their teachings, medical practices, and theories of diseases and treatments constituted the referential framework of medical science in Japan, the effects of which were mostly beneficial but occasionally harmful. Before we explore the variegated influences of German medicine in Japan, we first need to explicate the initial enigma of this deeply intertwined relationship: how did Germany and Japan become involved in medical science in the first place? As to this question of the adoption of German medical science as the official Japanese medical science model, scholars have oscillated between two differing interpretations. On one side, some scholars have argued that the Japanese adoption of German medical science was a purely practical, utilitarian choice.11 For example, Hermann Heinrich Vianden names three reasons behind Japan’s official endorsement of German medical science: the confirmation that the  Dutch texts, diligently read and translated by students of Dutch Learning, were originally German texts; the fresh memory of the impressive clinical performance of Philipp Franz von Siebold (1796–1866) during his initial stay in Japan as a “Dutch” resident physician from 1823 to 1829, which was fortuitously rekindled by his second visit to Japan from 1859 to 1863;12 and, finally, the official realization that German medical science was the most innovative in the world.13 While this approach primarily concerns the decision-making process in Japan, these answers inadvertently deprive Germany of its own agency, and therefore do not answer the question of German motivation – why did Germany decide to accept the Japanese proposal? For the alternative scholarly viewpoint, observers who have espoused the Sonderweg thesis of modern Germany and modern Japan have invariably favoured the idea that the ultimate reason for adopting German medical science lay in the political calculations of the Japanese officials, rather than within a purely practical eclecticism. For example, John Z. Bowers claims that in making those appropriations [of Western technology and science], the Japanese slavishly copied German medicine, not only because of its position of world leadership, but also because they found its philosophy and style especially comfortable. Emerging slowly from more than three centuries of feudalism, the Japanese discovered that their German teachers

Same Bed, Different Dreams  19 came from a similar social order; a form of feudalism was in fact the basis of the organization of the faculty and its relationships with the students in the German universities.14

Considering the historical developments in the 1870s and the 1880s – specifically Japanese politicians’ fascination with the fast and furious victories of the Prussian army against France in 1870 and Japan’s adoption of the conservative Prussian model for her constitution in 1889 – it is fair to say that it is entirely plausible that Japanese political considerations played a decisive role in the adoption of German medicine. After all, to the historians who espouse this political interpretation, the Germans Müller and Hoffmann were conveniently a Prussian soldier and a navy physician who exemplified deeply ingrained German political conservatism through their promotion of a micro-level relationship between teachers and pupils. Yet was it in fact Japanese political calculation that ultimately sealed the deal in the selection of German medical science as a model? Or was it a purely rational choice on the part of Japanese decision makers? Upon closer examination, it becomes clear that the Japanese choice of German medical science was not a “political” decision, an attempt to emulate the Prussian model of a militaristic and authoritarian state structure. Nor was the decision solely made by the Japanese. The Japanese preference for German medicine was indeed a practical one based on their thorough assessment of the status of Western medical science. The Japanese were drawn to Germany because of its superb medical science, not the other way around. But the final consummation of the marriage was possible only because Germany became a willing bride of this arrangement based upon its own political agenda and ambitions. Between Rational Choice and Imperial Conduit: The Arrival of German Physicians The “opening” of Japan by the unwelcome visit of four American battleships in 1853 opened a can of worms for the Japanese. Being insulated from external communication and exchanges meant that Japan had been relatively safe from outbreaks of seasonal infectious diseases going around in the world, but the coming of the “barbarians” (from the perspective of the Japanese) brought along undesirable germs as well. In 1857, for instance, cholera returned to Japan when an American battleship, the Mississippi, imported infected patients; over the next

20  Doctors of Empire

three years, the ensuing massive outbreaks throughout the country killed over 100,000 people in Edo (nowadays Tokyo) alone.15 To many contemporary observers, the entry of a foreign ship equalled the influx of yet another dangerous disease. The containment of epidemic diseases has been critical to the legitimacy of any regime in the world past and present, but it was even more so to the fledgling Meiji government that was founded in 1868, because it envisioned creating a modern nation state borrowing barbarian techniques. How to contain public fear of disease was therefore one of the first major challenges that the Meiji government found crucial to solve. It is with this broader societal recognition that, in 1869, the Meiji government took control of the Igakusho, the successor of the private vaccination clinic during the shogunate, and changed its name first to Medical School and Hospital [Igakko-ken-byōin] and later to University East Building (or College) [Daigaku-tōkō] in December 1869. In January of the same year, the government also assigned the task of reforming the Japanese medical science program to two young physicians of Dutch medicine, Sagara Chian (1836–1906) from Saga domain and Iwasa Jun (1836–1912) from Fukui domain.16 Having studied modern medical science with the Dutch physician Antonius François Bauduin (1820–85) in Nagasaki and also having consulted with other prominent schools of Dutch Learning, these two thirty-one-year-old physician-bureaucrats concluded that what was most urgently required for the new government was a proper medical school, not merely an attachment to a clinical hospital, that could train and produce competent medical specialists. Importantly, Sagara and Iwasa further argued that Japan needed to invite foreign physicians as teachers.17 As to the question of the country from which to request these instructors, Sagara and Iwasa came to several conclusions in their evaluation of potential foreign systems: first, the reputation of Dutch medicine in Europe was not as strong as the Japanese had thought; second, while British medical science was well developed, the British thoroughly despised the Japanese; and, finally, American medical science was still too young and lacking in influence.18 This sentiment was shared by other students of medicine at that time. Ishìguro Tadanori (1845–1941), who would later become the surgeon general of the Imperial Army, recalled the sentiment among the students of Dutch medicine: As to medical science, I already believed absolutely that German medicine should be introduced. We already read the Dutch medical books before

Same Bed, Different Dreams  21 the Meiji period, but in essence they were just translations of German books. For example, for internal medicine, books by Ehland, Wunderlich, and Niemeyer. For surgery: a book by Strohmeyer. Anatomy: books by Bock and Hildt … All the previous outstanding books on medical science were Dutch translations of German books. Later we read about anatomy by Gray and Wilson – they were very good – but other books from other countries were not better than German books, in my opinion.19

Of course, this rather superficial and anecdotal assessment aroused vehement objections from intellectuals such as Fukuzawa Yukichi, who generally found himself in admiration of the British system.20 Although Fukuzawa’s objection probably stemmed from his sentimental at­ tachment to the British system, there was a “British group,” proposing the adoption of the British model of medical science.21 Their choice of British medicine, however, was not entirely academic either. Mainly due to their allegiance to Dr William Willis (1837–1894), who through his participation in the Boshin Civil War (1868–9) on the side of the antishogun camp had a strong political connection with Meiji leaders from Satsuma domain, this British camp argued for the adoption of British medical science and, as historian Christian Oberländer describes in his recent article, “in the spring of 1869, it looked like Japanese medicine would be reorganized according to the British model,” with Dr Willis at its helm.22 With the debate stalemated and their proposals about to be thrown away, Sagara and Iwasa, who belonged to the “German group,” as most scholars of Dutch Learning did,23 schemed to get an “objective” endorsement from a third party well versed in the development of contemporary academic disciplines. They found this confirmation in Guido F. Verbeck (1830–98), a former Dutch Reformed missionary from America and an influential academic figure of the Kaisei-Gakkō, who enjoyed “boundless” power in academic affairs.24 As the title of his biography attests, Verbeck was a “citizen of no country.” Born in the Netherlands to a German father and a Dutch mother, Verbeck immigrated to the United States in 1852, and was dispatched to Japan as a missionary in 1859. Due to the strong anti-Christianity policy of the shogunate, Verbeck could not disseminate Christian doctrines, but was allowed to teach Western science and languages in Nagasaki. There, he developed strong academic and personal liaisons with his students such as Soejima Taneomi (1828–1905) and Ōkuma Shigenobu (1838– 1922), who after the Meiji Restoration became “the architects of the new

22  Doctors of Empire

Japan.” With strong support from his former students, Verbeck exercised plenipotentiary power in the selection of teachers for his school. Using this position, Verbeck approvingly confirmed the proposals of both Sagara and Iwasa.25 Once the decision was finally reached in the winter of 1869 to adopt German medicine as the new institutional model,26 the Japanese government lost no time in sending a request to Max von Brandt (1835– 1920), the Prussian Ministerresident in Yokohama, that he recommend sending two German physicians to Japan. To Brandt, who first stepped on the soil of Japan in 1860 as a member of the Eulenburg Expedition (1859–62) of the Prussian government, the proposal of the Meiji government was unexpectedly fortuitous. After signing the Treaty of Friend­ ship, Commerce and Navigation with Japan on 24 January 1861, the Prussian government explored the possibility of securing overseas colonies near Japan: initially Formosa or Ryūkyū archipelago in the south, but later Hokkaidō in the north. As historian Erik Grimmer-Solem argued in a recent article, Max von Brandt, who became the German diplomatic representative for Japan from 1862, was especially vociferous in campaigning for this territorial acquisition, and he clung to this idea well into 1868. With the consolidation of Japan under the Meiji emperor, this dream of creating a German colonial outpost in Japan however turned out to be impractical, and Brandt increasingly shifted his attention to the exploitation of the commercial potentials of this island country.27 Without doubt, in the request from the Japanese government, Brandt saw a major opportunistic possibility of expanding German commercial and cultural outreach to Japan. Therefore, after receiving the official request from the Japanese government, dated 15 March 1870, stating that Japan would pay 600 Mex­ican silver dollars a month for the chief physician and 300 for the second physician to teach medical science in Tokyo,28 Brandt expeditiously relayed the request to Otto von Bismarck, the prime minister and minister of foreign affairs of Prussia, on 18 March 1870.29 What is notable is that Brandt specifically entreated Bismarck to dispatch two “military” physicians, a requirement that was not included in the original Japanese request. Brandt reasoned that by virtue of belonging to a military caste, the physicians would be esteemed by the Japanese, accepted into Japanese aristocratic circles, and maybe even hired as court physicians to the Japanese emperor.30 In other words, Brandt strongly believed that the extracurricular influence those military physicians could exert in Japan would increasingly and handsomely serve Prussian interests. It

Same Bed, Different Dreams  23

was in this context that Brandt, who was acutely aware of the desperate need for army physicians in the event of a possible war in the midst of  escalating tension between France and Prussia, specifically asked Bismarck that the two men dispatched be military doctors. As this correspondence reveals, the choice of military physicians to teach in Japan was not made by the Japanese government; the decision was made by Brandt with the purpose of serving the greater interests of Prussia. That Brandt was taking steps to make these two doctors an effective and powerful conduit of Prussian influence in Japan which other European powers could not emulate is clear from the acceptance letter he sent to the Japanese government, almost instantly upon receipt of the original request.31 In his letter of 17 March 1870, Brandt made it explicit that “under no circumstances should the physician be subordinated to other foreign physicians or directors”32 and stipulated this as the only condition he was adding to the original proposal submitted by the Japanese government. Upon Brandt’s request, the Prussian government appointed Leopold Müller, then Oberstabarzt of the Prussian army, after sounding him out on 20 March 1870.33 To the Prussian government, Müller was undisputedly the most attractive candidate for this “Culturmission,”34 with twelve years of stellar achievements as a contracted chief adviser of military medical science and military hospital management in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, between 1856 and 1867.35 In addition, Theodor Hoffman, a Charité-trained naval physician, who had expertise in experimental pathology and pulmonary diseases, was selected by the Prussian government in close cooperation with the German war ministry. The compelling political considerations on the part of the Prussian government that provided the underlying motivation to send two of their best military doctors to Japan is further reflected in the report Brandt sent to Bernhard Ernst von Bülow, the Prussian minister of foreign affairs on 21 July 1874.36 In his assessment of the initial three-year tenure (1871–4) of physicians Müller and Hoffmann, Brandt concluded that the mission had been highly successful despite the many difficulties, for “the knowledge and the desire for the study of the German language had increased considerably among the Japanese.”37 To Brandt, the German language was an ideal conduit that served to increase German influence in Japan, and the medical school was a perfect medium to reach that goal, because it allowed Germans to achieve their aims more effectively than any other Western powers, who mainly relied on missionary activities. As Brandt confessed, it was for these

24  Doctors of Empire

practical and political reasons that he initially, and gladly, accepted the Japanese proposal.38 It was based upon this critical realization that ten days earlier, on 11 July, Brandt fought strongly against the Ministry of War, which objected to the one-year prolongation of the contracts of Müller and Hoffman. By 1874, Brandt had become intractably committed to the idea of developing the full commercial potential of Japan. For this purpose, in 1872, for instance, Brandt had entreated the Prussian Ministry of Commerce to dispatch a German expert to properly assess the commercial and industrial potential of Japan, which was duly realized in 1873 in the dispatch of Johannes Justus Rein (1835–1918), a geographer, to Japan.39 In other words, in the eyes of Brandt, the recall of German physicians at this critical juncture of German–Japanese relations was short-sighted. Against the Ministry of War, which forcefully expressed its own need of these military doctors, Brandt beseeched Bismarck to consider the enormous impact Müller and Hoffmann were making in Japan for the sake of the German empire. “The continuation of the medical school, at the very least as long as its fruitful results are expected and so far as these results may serve to the spread of German culture and German influence,” argued Brandt, “depends, for the moment at least, substantially, if not exclusively, on the assumption that the aforementioned gentlemen, who have acquired the trust of the highest state officials …, remain in the service of the Japanese government.”40 Clearly, Müller and Hoffman were embodiments of the German desire to extend the country’s intellectual, cultural, and eventually commercial and military reach into Asia. In addition this sense of mission was strongly shared by the two German doctors. When he accepted an invitation from the Japanese government to take up a professorship at Tokyo Medical School in the form of a three-year paid secondment from the Prussian military service, Müller already had a very clear idea of the political importance of his mission to Japan, and this belief in the political and economic usefulness of academic engagement in Japan became stronger over his four-year stay. In his report to the German Foreign Office and Prussian Kultusministerium right after he returned from Japan,41 Müller recalled the importance of the “monopoly” of German language in the schools and its economic and political implications: “The physicians and pharmacists who have been trained in German will gradually spread across Japan and become the best pioneers for building relations between the two countries.” Müller continued: “At first they purchased

Same Bed, Different Dreams  25

books, instruments, drugs, and chemicals to meet the needs of the [medical] school and the hospital, then for further needs of their own; [once they] saw that they had been well served, … new business connections and an increasingly active trade developed.”42 In summary, it was neither the political calculations of Japan, nor the benevolent generosity of Germany, that initiated the interactions between the two. Rather, the selection of German medical science as a model in Japan was a historically contingent event, reflecting both the German “push” factor (imperial ambition in East Asia) and the Japanese “pull” factor (appropriating cutting-edge German knowledge to modernize itself). In this context, it should be recalled that the decision to adopt the model of German medicine had been made even before the FrancoPrussian War of 1870–1. It is true that this conflict would dramatically change the perception of Germany among Japanese politicians. But Japan was fascinated by the program of German medical science, not by Prussia’s swift victory over France or Prussian authoritarianism. Before we learn about the actual implementation of reforms in medical education enacted by German doctors, we need to briefly consider the legacy of Dutch Learning in its relation to the introduction of German medicine, for Dutch Learning occupied a certain historical significance in that it formed a crucial stepping stone for the introduction of modern Western medical science into Japan, and as such has often been touted by historians as the crucial precursor to the eventual emergence of modern medicine in Japan. Contextualizing the Legacy of Dutch Learning The nature and extent of the foreign interaction of Tokugawa Japan has been radically revised in the last decade. In contrast to the conventional interpretation that emphasized the self-limiting and reclusive isolation policy of the Tokugawa regime, scholars have recently highlighted far more extensive and profound engagements of Japan with Asia and the rest of the world during the so-called sakoku – the policy of national isolation – era from the mid-1630s to the 1850s. Japanese historian Michael S. Laver, for instance, maintains that Tokugawa Japan was an integral and contributing member of the global economic exchange from the seventeenth century, although its commercial transactions were mainly conducted by its “proxies” – that is, Chinese and Dutch merchants.43 Given these vibrant commercial activities, according to Laver, the sakoku policy was not a complete withdrawal from international

26  Doctors of Empire

commercial transactions, but an attempt to realign foreign policy with the domestic situation.44 Likewise, Robert I. Hellyer draws a far more proactive and pragmatic image of the Tokugawa shogunate. Constantly in negotiation with the two most significant southern domains in the conduct of foreign relations, Satsuma and Tsushima, the shogunate emerges in Hellyer’s depiction not as irrationally ideological, pursuing an economically and socially detrimental seclusion policy, but as a much more practical, inclusive, and calculating entity that pursued what he calls “guarded engagement.”45 What has not changed in the new historiographical intervention (and probably is given more emphasis because of it) is the significance that Nagasaki held as a commercial and intellectual outpost of Tokugawa Japan. A strategic entrepôt that connected Japan to the global market of China and beyond, Nagasaki was bustling with Japanese, Chinese, and Dutch merchants. Of these “proxies,” in particular, the Dutch merchants, who secured a monopoly on foreign trade after the expulsion of the Portuguese, engaged not only in the commercial activities that exchanged Japan’s precious metals such as silver for silk, sugar, animal skins, and luxury goods for consumption by the Japanese, but also in  the cultural activities that brought new intellectual impetus to  Tokugawa Japan. This vibrant intellectual and cultural scene in Nagasaki in the form of spirited acquisition by Japanese scholars, initially, of the Dutch language and medicine, but gradually all branches of Western learning, is often referred to as rangaku or Dutch Learning for its origin and connection to the Dutch scientists and physicians in Deshima, a man-made island near Nagasaki.46 These “Dutch” doctors – mainly employees of the Dutch East India Company, but mostly German nationals – include Caspar Shambergen, Willem Ten Rhinje (1647–1700), Engelbert Kaempfer (1651–1716), Carl Peter Thunberg (1743–1828), and Philipp Franz von Siebold (1796– 1866).47 These doctors are said to have subtly yet gradually changed the way their Japanese counterparts viewed and approached medical science. For instance, Siebold, a physician and natural scientist from Würzburg, is often credited with having prefigured the later, intensive medical interaction between Germany and Japan. Arriving in Nagasaki in August 1823 to work as a resident doctor for a Dutch factory, Siebold introduced many European medical instruments and treated both Dutch workers and Japanese patients. More significantly, at his private medical school in Nagasaki, Siebold taught surgical and ophthalmological skills (including even a difficult cranial tumour surgery) to

Same Bed, Different Dreams  27

inquisitive and eager Japanese medical men who flocked to Nagasaki upon hearing of his reputation, until his forced departure from Japan in 1829 on the allegation of espionage.48 Japanese students of rangaku were diligent and ingenuous learners. After taking the opportunity to satisfy their curiosities by working with the Dutch in Deshima and by reading Dutch books, a few notable Japanese medical practitioners who were keenly familiar with Western science and technique translated notable modern Western medical texts into Japanese. The best-known example is Kaitai Shinsho (1774), a translation of the 1743 Dutch anatomical text Tafel Anatomia,49 which became a symbol of the Japanese desire to modernize. The iconic status of Kaitai Shinsho can be attributed to its introduction of a radically new concept of the body and its function into the vocabulary of Japanese traditional medicine. At the risk of generalization, one can say that traditional medicine in Japan, which developed in the Chinese cosmology, regarded the human body as an interaction between organs, where structures themselves were irrelevant. Also, as historian A.M. Luyendijk-Elshout mentions, this understanding of human anatomy had a direct connection to disease etiology and therapeutic measures; diseases arise when the equilibrium among bodily organs is disrupted, and thus treatments such as acupuncture and moxa are designed to restore this delicate equilibrium.50 In contrast to this traditional conception of body and disease, “the human body introduced by Western medicine was a mechanical body … Each tooth of each gear had its function and fitted into a category; there was an impulse and an effect.”51 This new mechanical concept of the body, featured and crystallized in the publication of Kaitai Shinsho, prompted a radical refashioning of thoughts on both diseases and therapeutic approaches. Given the pivotal influence of rangaku, which had Western medicine at its core and subsequently inspired the study of Western languages and sciences among later generations who became the founding fathers of Meiji Japan, such as Fukuzawa Yukichi, it is not surprising that historians have described the works of European physicians and their Japanese students as the critical point of departure, more broadly, of Japanese modernization itself and, more specifically, of the modern transformation of Japanese medical science. Assessing the historical significance of the symbolic translation of the aforementioned Tafel Anatomia, Fujikawa Yū (1865–1940), who studied internal medicine in Jena, Germany, from 1898 to 1900 and is best known as the pioneer of medical history in Japan,52 proclaimed in 1911: “The new anatomical

28  Doctors of Empire

text … is for Japanese medicine indeed for all branches of science an epoch-making and fundamental work. The publication of the work proved to be a great achievement that precipitated a tremendous reform of medicine in Japan.”53 Similarly, Japanese historian Hirakawa Sukehiro claims that the Japanese translators Sugita Genpaku, Maeno Ryōtarō, and their associates “initiated modern Japan’s independent and eclectic assimilation of advanced Western civilization through the medium of books.”54 Certainly, the foundational importance of Dutch Learning, the convergence of the work of Western physicians employed at the Dutch East India Company, and the painstaking efforts exerted by Dutch Learning Japanese scholars in their introduction of modern medical science into Japan, cannot be denied. Indeed, as many historical studies of the Kaitai Shinsho have shown, the very concept of the human body based on Western anatomy first circulated among Japanese students of Dutch Learning,55 and those scholarly traditions and networks proved to be one of the most dependable pillars of Japan’s modern transformation. Also, as we just learned, the two major proponents of German medicine in Japan, Sagara Chian and Iwasa Jun, were both students of Dutch Learning who recognized the dominating power of German medicine in Europe through their study of Dutch translated medical books. No less significant is the fact that among the very first generation of Japanese physicians of modern Western medical science, as we will learn in subsequent chapters of this book, were invariably the sons or grandsons of the students of Dutch Learning. In other words, it is critical to recognize that before the “Perry Shock” of 1853, Japan was already well on its way towards an indigenous intellectual revolution that would prepare it for the eventual rapid modernization during the Meiji period. While acknowledging the importance of Dutch Learning to the program of modern Japanese medical transformation, however, I also believe that the significance of it in the propagation of modern medical knowledge should not be exaggerated for a number of reasons. First, it should be remembered that there is a qualitative and temporal difference between when a certain knowledge and concept first becomes available and when that knowledge evolves into a dominant and commonsensical framework. In other words, it would be misleading to claim that the introduction of a new understanding of the human body based upon Western anatomical knowledge in the late eighteenth century meant that most plebeian doctors in Japan had learned of it by the

Same Bed, Different Dreams  29

early nineteenth century.56 In this respect, it is revealing to read from the Müller report cited earlier that even the brightest students who had received prior medical training by reading Japanese translations of Western medical books or in some cases by studying directly under Western physicians stationed in Nagasaki, such as Bauduin, did not possess even a very basic idea of human anatomy. What this telling example signifies is that for an idea to be accepted and ingrained, it needs a proper institutional setting and support. The delayed adoption of Jennerian smallpox vaccination in Japan is a good example. As historian Ann Jannetta shows, the Japanese learned of the idea of smallpox vaccination as early as 1803, but the actual vaccination failed to be implemented until 1849 because “the institutions that supported this Western medical culture were entirely absent in Japan.”57 Likewise, the case of Pompe van Meedervoort and his medical school in the closing years of Tokugawa Japan teaches us the importance of this confluence of knowledge and power when it comes to medical education. In 1857, van Meedervoort (1829–1908), a Dutch naval surgeon, was invited by the soon-to-be abolished Tokugawa shogunate to teach Japanese students in Nagasaki. In close collaboration with the Japanese court physician Matsumoto Ryōjun (also known as Matsumoto Jun) as a translator-cum-assistant, van Meerdervoort set up a full-fledged medical school in Nagasaki with a group of twelve Japanese students. Van Meerdervoort’s medical prowess was admirable; he showcased two dissections in September and November of 1859 and decisively influenced the treatment of cholera outbreaks in Nagasaki and Edo in 1860. However, Van Meerdervoort’s school of medicine, which had a five-year academic curriculum based on the Dutch medical school system, accomplished very little, primarily due to his heavy reliance on translation as a method of instruction.58 It is anyone’s guess what van Meerdervoort would have eventually achieved if the Tokugawa shogunate did not collapse in 1867 and had continued to support his medical education with more resources and personnel. What is clear is that, to the newly established Meiji government, Dutch Learning appeared to be unsystematic and dysfunctional. And it is based upon this acute realization that medical education in Nagasaki and Edo was entirely inadequate to produce, on a reliable basis, a new generation of physicians for the new regime that the Meiji government decided to request the dispatch of German doctors who would be fully entrusted to properly institutionalize modern medical science in Meiji Japan. In this respect, as we shall see in the next chapter

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of this book, the influence of the first generation of German physicians was more disruptive than gradual in terms of the institutionalization of theoretical and epistemological changes in medical science and their use in a rapidly changing world. After all, it was only through the systematic teaching of German physicians in Japan – and through the education of Japanese medical students in Germany – that Japan could genuinely claim to be a nation of modern medical science.

Chapter 2

Borrowed Hands: German Physicians’ Teaching of Medical Education in Meiji Japan

In retrospect, it is almost a miracle that the German doctors Müller and Hoffmann did not suffer heart attacks on the very first day of school. Their first visit to the medical school located at Kanda Izumibashi-dori in Tokyo was expected to be ceremonious, if not festive. Accompanied by a German cavalry entourage, the two German doctors were dressed in full military attire, including spiked helmets, a choice they deliberately made to build their authority and draw an unbridgeable line between them and their students.1 It did not take long, however, for these physicians to realize that the clothing trick was unnecessary. To their question of previous medical knowledge, a Japanese medical student touched his small pipe lighter and answered proudly: “I am now reading about physiology … and I have already finished reading two-­ hundred pages of anatomy.” As if competing with this student, another sitting next to him similarly boasted that he had “read the whole pathology [book] by Niemeyer2 twice.”3 It had been an easy decision for politicians in Berlin to decide to send these two doctors to Japan, but it became quickly and poignantly clear to Müller and Hoffmann that they would face multiple obstacles in their mission of “Germanizing” medical science in Japan. This chapter will chronicle and analyse the seismic changes that three generations of German doctors beginning with Müller and Hoffmann instituted in Tokyo through their persistent attempts to Germanize medical science and education in Meiji Japan. It starts with the hardships that Müller and Hoffmann had to overcome and then will analyse the continued efforts and subtle changes made by the subsequent cohorts of German physicians to the ultimate replacement of German doctors by their Japanese students.

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Breeding Grounds for Infectious Diseases and Asylum for the Homeless Tasked with the mission of propagating German culture in Japan through the modernization of medical education, Müller and Hoffmann first began to assess the current conditions. To their dismay, the initial assessment taught them that every existing aspect of the school was at odds with what they were trying to do. From the poor quality of students to the dilapidated facilities, the obstructive Japanese administrators, and the “quack” foreign teachers, every single corner of the school was mined with impediments. In a nutshell, Müller and Hoffmann found “a completely unworkable mess for their future assignment.”4 The lack of intellectual capacity on the part of their Japanese medical students was the most surprising and demoralizing aspect the two Germans encountered in Japan. For Müller, who as a physician in Germany had enjoyed a relatively high social status and respect, it was a shocking revelation that in Japan, only “people who were physically and mentally useless for other jobs” (körperlich und geistig für andere Lebensstellungen unbrauchbarer Menschen) dedicated themselves to the study of medical science, while younger and more intellectually capable people, especially from better families, did not bother to study medicine. Many of their Japanese students had also been indoctrinated in the pedagogical methods of the Chinese for so long that they became unable to embark on any alternative intellectual endeavours.5 As much as he was disappointed by the poor quality of his Japanese medical students, Müller was further baffled by the lack of proper teaching materials and the dilapidated teaching and clinical facilities. For anatomical training, for instance, Müller found only one, incomplete, human skeleton and a couple of Auzoux’s artificial anatomies made out of papier-mâché and plaster.6 In the library, Müller unearthed two outdated books in Dutch and English, along with just one German medical textbook, Das Buch von gesunden und kranken Menschen by Carl Ernst Bock (1809–74), an anatomist at Leipzig University. This last discovery was not entirely problematic – except that there were over fifty copies of this particular book! The full extent of the rather unfortunate Japanese mismanagement of teaching materials revealed itself only a couple of months later. After struggling to teach osteology without an adequate teaching sample, Müller stumbled upon five complete sets of skeletons, some microscopes and medical textbooks, and ophthalmological

Borrowed Hands  33

glasses (Brillenkasten), all stored safely underground in case of fire; yet again, the problem was that no Japanese staff or administrators were aware of this “hidden storage.”7 To Müller, the lack of proper instructional equipment exemplified not only the underdevelopment of modern medical science in Japan, but also the hodgepodge style of Japanese school management. The medical school building and hospital located in Tōdō Yashiki, one of many domainal compounds in Tokyo for alternating daimyos and their families and servants, was also poorly maintained. This was anything but a school and a hospital: though spacious, the improvised lecture hall was unsuited for medical education, and the terrible hygienic situation of the building being next to the pond of the yashiki made the whole medical and teaching facility fertile “breeding grounds for infectious diseases.”8 If the school was physically a breeding ground for infectious disease, it was figuratively an “asylum for the homeless” (Asyl für Obdachlose). In referring to the homeless, Müller did not mean his ill-prepared medical students; rather, he was referring to the faculty members at Kaiseijo (later Daigaku-Nankō), who had the responsibility of teaching students chemistry, physics, and foreign languages, similar to the mission of the gymnasium in Germany. The competency of his students’ Japanese teachers was an issue for Müller because in order to train medical experts in a short span of time, he needed all the help he could get from these preparatory school teachers. Unfortunately, the situation looked absolutely dismal, as Müller conveyed when he wrote of these multinational educators: The faculty is thrown together from all possible classes and countries; among them, in addition to the clerks and beer brewers, were pharmacists, agriculturalists, sailors, shipbuilders … There was once even talk of selecting a circus clown as a gymnastic teacher, which was not so monstrous, when one learned that someone who worked at the same circus had been engaged as a language teacher. A [competitive] selection was not made; anyone who came to Japan, and was otherwise useful for nothing and could have no position, was fairly certain of finding a post of a teacher at Kaisedjo [sic] or at a similar institution.9

Considering the quality of the students, buildings, and faculty, it was hardly surprising to Müller to find that the said beer brewer was teaching economics.

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Of all the troubles at the school, Müller and Hoffmann found the peculiar way of approaching knowledge most problematic. To these German doctors, the Japanese medical students were at best bad translators, if not conceited daydreamers. Müller wrote: A student could, for example, read something Dutch and want to study Hyrtl’s German anatomy.10 He read a snippet from Hyrtl’s book and then looked up every word in the German-Dutch dictionary; however, because he possessed only a bare minimum level of the Dutch language, he then had to consult a Dutch-English dictionary and furthermore EnglishJapanese dictionary to understand the meaning of the word he found in the book of Hyrtl.11

The method Müller and Hoffmann encountered in observing their new students, which consisted of reading medical texts written in various foreign languages aloud and deciphering their meanings using whatever foreign language a said student was capable of, was not limited to a handful of untalented Japanese students. Reflecting on his own medical training in the 1860s, Ikeda Kensai (1841–1918), one of the first nine recipients of a state scholarship for studying abroad in 1870 and eventually the first dean of the Medical Faculty of Tokyo Imperial University, recalled that medical school in Tokyo functioned primarily as a school for translation. During his studentship, he was singularly focused on reading a given text aloud and trying to extract any meaning he could understand. “For each lecture, we prepared two or three lines of translations using grammar books,” describes Ikeda. “If things were not clear enough, the class quickly turned into a form of discussion … We were asked to find meaning, gender, case, and then prepositions, conjunctions.”12 Ishiguro Tadanori also remembered in his memoir that at Igakusho (the Institute of Medicine), he and his fellow students had to copy various Western medical books and read them diligently, because studying anatomy using human cadavers had been out of the question.13 In fact, the extensive reading of foreign textbooks could have been an extremely useful method of acquiring substantial medical knowledge in a relatively short span of time if the Japanese students had commanded a sufficient level of foreign-language reading comprehension. The main impediment to knowledge, however, was that these Japanese students never possessed any meaningful level of language competency. To say nothing of unavoidable misreading, they often blatantly ignored spelling differences – particularly between the letters R and L or

Borrowed Hands  35

H and F. Indeed, linguistic hurdles plagued even the best multilingual Japanese medical students. Miyake Shū, then a translator and later dean of the medical school, and whom Müller estimated as the very best speaker of English and German, made frequent errors in distinguishing the word kreblig (cancerous) from the word klebrig (glutinous).14 Not surprisingly, this “exegetical” method of medical study, whereby students read highly specialized medical textbooks in foreign languages, almost always resulted in complete absurdity. In testimony to this linguistic circus, Müller recounts a scene where the aforementioned Japanese student understood the anatomical description of the upper jaw (Oberkiefer), as gleaned from Hyrtl’s book, rather crudely as “these three bones support the tottering throne of this mighty monarch’s face against the ceaseless attacks of his restless antagonists of the mandible” (Diese drei Knochen stützen den wankenden Thron dieses mächtigen Gesichts­ monarchen gegen die rastlosen Angriffe seine unruhigen Antagonisten, des Unterkiefers).15 Even more problematic than this “creative” reading of medical texts was the Japanese students’ unswerving obsession with the traditional method of knowledge acquisition. In Müller’s estimation, these medical students considered medical knowledge as either only one form of “encyclopedic knowledge,” which was to be memorized by mechanical repetitions of fact, or as something that was to be learned from other scholars who guarded facts as “trade secrets.” Müller’s co-teacher, Hoffmann, also witnessed similar submissive dispositions among Japa­ nese medical students. “With this blind faith in authority,” lamented Hoffmann, “there is no place among Japanese medical students for an independent observation or their own medical opinions.”16 More important, in the eyes of the German physicians, these particular Japanese methods of acquiring medical knowledge – reading, reciting, translating, and memorizing – revealed fundamental cultural differences, not just a problem of misinterpretation. Crucially, what was at stake to their German instructors was the very concept of science: “So-called scientific (!) Japanese physicians,” chided Müller, ­“regarded … new theories based on experience and observation with haughty contempt, and adhered, as exclusively as possible, to their ageold, solely-speculation-based Chinese lore.”17 To Müller and other German physicians who followed in his footsteps, the medical knowledge they sought to impart was not an object of reading as their students understood it to be; rather, learning was an object of showing, which one acquires not through speculation or

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meditation, but through the keen observation of the dexterous hands of adept physicians. Reading medical texts was indeed essential, but it was a prerequisite, not an end in itself. When Müller and Hoffmann came to Japan determined to “show German medical science” (Deutsche Medicin zeigen),18 therefore, they did not simply mean to “show off” their superior medical knowledge. To these German physicians, medical knowledge was a sophisticated form of science that one should teach by “showing (or displaying)” at hospital beds, operation tables, and laboratories.19 Thus, when Müller proclaimed that a complete “Europeanization” was called for at the Tokyo Medical School, he was envisioning a transformation not only at the level of the practical application of medical science, but most notably at the epistemological level. Of course, from this observation it cannot be denied that Müller is oversimplifying the complexity, creativity, and diversity of “Chinese” scholarship. Despite Müller’s claim that Japanese medical science under the direct influence of Chinese medicine was only speculative in its nature, a subtle yet significant intellectual change had been well under way from the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries under the rubric of the School of Ancient Learning. Criticizing the entrenched speculative tendency of then-dominant Confucianism, these Ancient Learning scholars espoused empiricism, emphasizing personal scrutiny and actual experience (shinshi jikken). Influenced by this positivistic intellectual trend, physicians such as Yoshimasu Tōdō (1702–73) and Yamawaki Tōyō (1705–62), who performed the very first autopsy in Japan in 1754, posited that accurate diagnosis of diseases should prevail over a subjective speculation based on medieval Chinese medical texts.20 What is important for us to recognize, however, is that this nascent turn to and emphasis on empiricism and observation was nowhere to  be seen among the Japanese students gathered at Tokyo Medical College. At least in the eyes of Müller, therefore, the very concept of medical science and knowledge, and particularly the pedagogical method of approaching that knowledge in Japan, was in need of a complete and radical overhaul. It was a daunting task for Müller and Hoffmann to overcome the numerous obstacles they found upon their arrival in Japan and to set the medicinisch-chirurgische Akademie in Tokio on track in their brief fouryear tenure. In order to properly instruct and therefore “demonstrate” German medical science, they estimated that they needed to establish a proper preparatory school, teach their students German as an instructional language, and build a new hospital.

Borrowed Hands  37

Laying the Foundation for the Future: The Preparatory School and the Curriculum In order to transform the Tokyo Medical School from an “asylum for the homeless” into a genuinely modern medical institution, Müller and Hoffmann needed all the help they could get. One advantage was the provision in their contracts that gave them ultimate decision-making power over the selection of faculty members as well as medical students.21 “Nobody could be employed at the school without our explicit permission,” recalled Müller. Working under the direct jurisdiction of the Ministry of Education in the everyday operations of the school, Müller asserted that this substantial level of independence was of crucial importance for his success.22 With virtual plenipotentiary power that no subsequent German physicians in Japan would enjoy, Müller and Hoffmann sought to reform the school in three critical, interrelated areas. They revised the academic curriculum, specifically the systematic admission and education of medical students; increased the number of highly qualified German teaching personnel; and enhanced the school’s teaching facilities and equipment. On 4 September 1871, Müller began his first lectures to Japanese medical students at Tokyo Medical School; Hoffmann, owing to family obligations, began in mid-September.23 Lecturing for four hours each day, and initially focusing on human anatomy, but later including surgery, ophthalmology, and gynecology as well, Müller found his audience much smaller than expected. In fact, there were only 140 students; the other 160 had chosen to leave, dissuaded by the prospect of rigorous medical training. For students who had already studied medicine for three or four years and were mainly interested in the reputation they could gain from attending the medical school at their own leisure, the Germans’ teaching style was not to their taste.24 Indeed, even the Japanese administrators of the school found it surprising that there would be systematic lectures based on a schedule and curriculum. Probably unaware of any rigorous European medical education system, the Japanese staff members initially regarded Müller and Hoffmann as advisers, expected to arrive at 8 a.m. and stay until 5 p.m., primarily answering students’ questions and attending some patients in the afternoon.25 Still, Müller thought that even 140 students constituted too large an audience for medical training to be effective. His wish for a smaller, more intimate class of students would soon become reality: after weekly Saturday exams testing what the students had learned the

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previous week, student enrolment continued to drop, and by December 1870, only fifty-nine students remained.26 Despite a relatively manageable number of medical students, the German physicians found that teaching them was an arduous process, for they had to rely on interpreters – both German and English – who more often than not obscured the content of the lectures rather than elucidating it.27 Müller’s lectures in German were translated by Shiba Ryōkai (1839–79), who had been known for his linguistic capabilities. When Müller arrived at Yokohama, he was greeted by Ishiguro Tadanori, Hasegawa Tai, and Shiba Ryōkai. Expecting that no one would speak German, Müller was pleasantly surprised to learn that Shiba spoke German fluently. When he learned that Shiba had never been out of Japan, Müller is said to have confessed, “My wife is French, and she’s been living with me for more than eleven years, but you speak better German.”28 But the conversational German that Shiba mastered was not sufficient to translate highly complicated medical matters. Out of his exceedingly busy, almost twelve-hour working day, Müller had to carve out half an hour each day to train Shiba.29 Rising to the challenge, Müller and Hoffmann adopted various improvised methods including extensive use of the blackboard. Müller and Hoffmann would write down the maximum number of medical concepts that they could on the board while speaking slowly. What they said was then translated sentence by sentence. In addition, they tried to creatively use the so-called Japanese method of acquiring knowledge – reading, reciting, and memorizing – to their own advantage. At the end of each lecture, Müller and Hoffmann gave their detailed lecture notes to the Japanese interpreters, who translated them into understandable Japanese. Since this method used written texts rather than the spoken word, the accuracy improved significantly, and with these translated lecture notes, the Japanese students could better prepare for the next lectures and weekly exams.30 It was, however, still an improvised method: for an optimal and effective teaching environment, it was absolutely necessary for Japanese students to understand their instructors’ German to the point where no translation was needed at all. Along with the barriers of language, Müller and Hoffmann found that their students’ lack of proper training in the basics of the natural sciences, such as chemistry, physics, and mathematics, presented an obstacle to the teaching process. The incumbent teachers at Nankō provided little help. Also, although the Japanese officials tried to persuade

Borrowed Hands  39

the Germans otherwise, Müller and Hoffmann found that teaching everything from German to mathematics to anatomy themselves was a formidable, if not impossible, task, which would eventually compromise the quality of their medical lectures.31 The German physicians therefore established a separate preparatory school with the mission of providing an education in elementary science as well as German language training. After prolonged discussions with the Japanese government, in January 1872, a preliminary form of preparatory school was established; a year later, a full-blown preparatory school was inaugurated. New teachers for this school were, of course, German nationals, whom Müller chose in consultation with Brandt:32 Hermann Cochius for mathematics, chemistry, and physics;33 Franz Martin Hilgendorf (1839–1904) for mathematics and natural sciences;34 and Hermann Funk for German and Latin.35 In July of the same year, Dr Friedrich Karl Wilhelm Dönitz (1838–1912), who would later be known among the Japanese for his masterly anatomical knowledge, joined the medical faculty to teach physiology and microscopy, but was mainly charged with anatomy instruction, thus relieving Müller and Hoffmann of teaching these elementary subjects and allowing them to fully concentrate on clinical subjects.36 Although their new preparatory school may have been understaffed by European standards, and was in those early years in a constant state of flux,37 the teaching faculty of the Dai-ichi Daigaku-ku Igakkō was far superior to any previous medical schools in Japan. After the expansion of their teaching personnel, Müller began to institute a new course of study, emulating those already in place in Germany. With a strong emphasis on acquiring the German language, anatomical knowledge, and clinical experience, the resulting eight-year course of study as laid out by Müller consisted of three years of preparatory classes, a four-year medical education, and a one-year clinical practice at a hospital.38 In addition, Müller adopted a stricter admissions policy, effectively barring the entrance of weak students. The new admissions policy stipulated that a student should be between fourteen and sixteen years old at the time of matriculation, well versed in Chinese and Japanese general education, and physically and mentally fit. Tuition was set at about forty German marks a month, and financial support was available for students who could not afford the tuition; these students were to repay the school in the form of obligatory governmental employment following graduation for a minimum of five years.39

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If the new admissions policy and revised academic curriculum were meant to transform the Japanese medical students intellectually, the new regulations on school attire sought to transform them in other ways as well. Under the new uniform regulations – which were initiated by Japanese school officials in their attempt to match the strenuous efforts of Müller and Hoffmann to “Europeanize” Japanese students – medical students were now required to wear a military-style uniform, which consisted of a grey jacket and trousers, blue cap, and leather boots, and also to have their hair trimmed.40 Students were also asked to purchase European wristwatches in an attempt to standardize the everyday academic schedule. Reminiscent of the correlation of the rise of standardized time with the establishment of industrial capitalism and related work ethics in nineteenth-century Europe,41 the change was  clearly aimed at inculcating time discipline among the Japanese students, who until then were accustomed to working on their own schedules.42 However, these various efforts to “Europeanize” the medical school and its students met with staunch resistance from the Japanese students, the Japanese physicians, the European teachers, and even some in the Japanese government, although points of contention varied greatly depending on their respective interests. First, conflict in the form of constant grumbling came from many of the numerous Europeans working in Tokyo schools, because they felt their own existences threatened by the high standards Müller and Hoffman set for the hiring of foreign teachers at the Tokyo Medical School.43 Similarly, older Japanese physicians and officials, feeling vulnerable vis-à-vis the younger and welleducated students from the Tokyo Medical School,44 constantly tried to galvanize opposition to the curricular reforms of Müller and Hoffmann.45 In turn, Japanese students found their new student lives distasteful, if not suffocating. Recollecting his years at Tokyo Medical School from 1877–89, Irisawa Tatsukichi (1865–1938) reported that medical students living in the school dormitories often sneaked out to pleasure districts as a way to escape their schoolwork.46 The reasons behind the resistance from some in the Japanese government were slightly different. As Albrecht Wernich noted a few years later, the Japanese government earnestly believed in 1871 that within three years they could completely impregnate their own medical science with cutting-edge European trends.47 Therefore, Müller’s eight-year program was completely beyond their own estimated goals, although they were willing to do what it took to meet these goals, within their means.48

Borrowed Hands  41

Leopold Müller with his students at Tokyo Medical School, July 1875. Courtesy of Berlin Landesarchiv, E Rep 200–35, Nr. 53.

To a certain extent, however, Müller and Hoffmann were their own main enemies. Like other European colonizers trapped in the paradox of colonial enlightenment – the belief that they could enlighten primitive natives, although those natives could never be enlightened – Müller and Hoffmann were not entirely convinced of the success of their mission to “Germanize” Japanese medical practice and Japanese students. For example, the already mentioned dress regulations clearly betray a mixture

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of anxiety and condescension that plagued the two German physicians. Although they fully endorsed the regulations as an effective method of instituting discipline in their Japanese students, Müller and Hoffmann were simultaneously sceptical about their students’ capacity to internalize these prescriptions – in this case, whether the Japanese would ever become accustomed to wearing European clothing.49 On 25 November 1875, Müller and Hoffmann departed from Japan after four and a half years of service marked by “incessant fear and trembling in suspended pain”50 in Tokyo, including a fifteen-month tenure as the official court physicians to the Meiji emperor. Their departure was celebrated with an extravagant party featuring the bands of the German frigate Hertha, and bonfires.51 In the end, what had Müller and Hoffmann achieved, and what was their legacy for the next generation of German physicians in Japan? Did they achieve what they had announced upon their first visit to the school on 24 August 1871 – namely, that they had come not only to teach medical science, but also to transform the entire system of medical science instruction in Japan?52 Müller and Hoffmann had clear views on their achievements as well as their shortcomings. As Müller tellingly recounted: If we ask what has been definitely and irrevocably achieved by our work, then we would choose, as the most prominent result, the displacement of Chinese method, which had held dominant status in Japan for thousands of years, from the study of medicine and natural sciences. For the first time, it was demonstrated to the eyes of the Japanese that a science could be acquired not by an aphoristic memorization, but only by a well-organized and organically arranged, serious study.53

Müller and Hoffmann did indeed plant the seed of “rational and systematic thinking” in Japan, yet it was also clear to them that it would take time to reap the fruits of their labour. Later, Hoffmann confessed that their influence on the modernization of medicine in Japan had hitherto been “extraordinarily small”54; as Hoffmann said, most of their former students worked in Tokyo as state officials or military physicians, leaving the mass of Japanese physicians, especially those working in the countryside, untouched by their institutional reforms.55 Despite these shortcomings, Müller and Hoffmann did not despair. Slowly but steadily, their efforts to modernize medical science in Japan began to reach physicians even in the remotest locations in the form of

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a bimonthly clinical journal authored by Müller and Hoffmann, translated into Japanese by their assistants, and published and distributed by the Japanese government from 1872.56 In the end, it was not unreasonable for Müller and Hoffmann to anticipate that “a good general influence can be expected after approximately one decade.”57 Their fellow German physicians Emil August Schultze and Albrecht Wernich were appointed to continue their work. Relaying the Torch: Wilhelm Schultze, 1874–1881 By the time the original contract of Müller and Hoffmann had expired in 1874, it was clear to both the Japanese and German governments that inviting two new military physicians to take the place of Müller and Hoffmann would best serve their respective interests. On the one hand, after realizing that the transformation of the entire national medical education system could not be completed in the short span of three years, the Japanese government wanted to maintain the momentum by hastening their request to the German government for replacements. The Japanese wanted to ensure that there would not be any lapse in the students’ critical medical education in the transition from Müller and Hoffmann to their successors. On the other hand, owing to the emergence of an intense rivalry from the French for the minds of the Japanese in matters of science and knowledge, the German government did not want to forfeit the Japanese fascination with German science and knowledge, nor did they want to relinquish their domination in higher education.58 Thus, on 20 September 1875, when Theodor von Holleben, the interim ambassador of Germany in Japan, requested that Bernhard Ernst von Bülow, the minister of foreign affairs, prioritize the interests and needs of the medical school of Tokyo, Holleben demonstrated his keen awareness of the serious propagandistic value of the school as a foreign showcase for German culture and science. Assessing the situation in Japan, Ambassador Holleben betrayed his optimistic expectations when he wrote that “we can anticipate a flowering future for a long time, despite the … Japanese aspiration to grad­ually dispense with their European teachers.”59 Holleben was not completely off the mark, for the aspirations of the Japanese government to substitute Japanese physicians for German teachers turned out to be stronger than any German politician or physician had anticipated. Starting with the appointment of Ōsawa Kenji in April 1877 as the first Japanese professor at the medical school, the Japanese government

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actively reclaimed instructional positions, slowly but steadily replacing German physicians with their own German-educated physicians.60 Financial burden was the biggest reason for this decision, although the cultural self-confidence that could be gained by replacing these “live machines” played a role as well.61 In the 1870s, the medical school paid roughly 3400 yen per month to German physicians and teachers at the medical school and preparatory school. Considering the fact that a cabinet minister usually received 500 yen a month, and an ordinary girl working in a textile mill received about 1 or 2 yen per month, the money paid to German physicians was astronomical. In fact, 3000 yen per month was one-fourth of the entire budget of the medical school.62 In this respect, the work period of Germans Emil August Wilhelm Schultze, Albrecht Wernich, Friedrich Karl Wilhelm Dönitz, and Hans Paul Bernhard Gierke – roughly from 1874 to 1881 – signifies an important transitional period, not only in terms of the relations between Germany and Japan regarding medical science, but also in terms of the professionalization and popularization of medical education and the medical occupation in Japan. The first sign of this transitional phase in Japanese medical education was the explosive increase in the number of medical students enrolled at Tokyo Medical School. As noted earlier, at the time of Müller’s departure there were only thirty-five students at the medical school. When Schultze replaced Müller and assumed his position in 1875, however, the medical school counted 324 students and the number kept growing: at the end of January 1876, 489 students; in January 1877, 592 students; and by September 1877, enrolment reached the stunning number of 951 students.63 In addition, a dramatic increase occurred in terms of the admission to graduation ratio: for example, in 1876, 230 students matriculated and 136 graduated; between January and October 1877, 454 students were newly admitted, and 88 graduated.64 These figures prompt the question of exactly what was happening in Japan in the mid-1870s. First and foremost, a subtle change in the perception of the medical sciences and the medical profession occurred among ordinary Japanese people. From being hereditary, the position of physician became a potentially lucrative profession. This shift was accompanied by notable social dislocations and upheavals during the early Meiji period that lay behind the huge increase in student enrolments.65 However, what actually transformed changing perceptions into an increased number of students was the Meiji government’s decision in May 1875 to establish a “commuter” program at Tokyo Medical School, in response to an increased demand for physicians trained in

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modern medical science.66 Unlike a regular college course, conducted entirely in German without interpreters, this “shortcut” course, which eventually had its own pharmaceutical track and a preparatory school track, was taught by the Japanese assistants of the German physicians.67 Also, unlike regular students who were required to stay in school dormitories, these “commuter” students were not under strict control, and their ordinary length of study was just three years. The conflict between the regular students, who had to endure eight long years to get their degree and those shortcut takers was, of course, unavoidable. The regular students often called these commuter students, who were accepted twice a year into the program,68 “irregular students,” “abnormal students,” or even inzekuto, the Japanese transliteration of the German word Insekt, meaning insects.69 From a broad perspective, these moves by the Japanese government were harbingers of a growing polarization between research-oriented, high-calibre elite physicians and clinically oriented, “ordinary” physicians, a situation which was replicated in Germany as Japanese students flocked there en masse from 1880s onwards.70 More immediately, this massive and sudden influx of students into Tokyo Medical School – both in German courses and in Japanese courses – put Schultze to the test. As the new chair of the teaching department, Schultze faced two important challenges. His first task was to revise the curriculum in response to the changing circumstances, namely, the fact that the medical students now were relatively better prepared than those of his predecessors, Müller and Hoffmann. In contrast to Müller’s eight-year curriculum program, where German-language training was required of even the fifth-year medical student, Schultze’s ten-year program relegated the basic sciences and German language training entirely to the preparatory school agenda, and devoted more attention to instruction in the advanced and diversified fields of medical science.71 The breakdown of the curriculum Schultze devised was as follows: Year 1 (1st semester): physics, chemistry, zoology, and anatomy Year 1 (2nd semester): physics, chemistry, zoology, specialized anatomy, and histology Year 2 (1st semester): physics, chemistry, and anatomy Year 2 (2nd semester): physics, chemistry, auscultation, and physiology Year 3 (1st semester): general surgery, general internal medicine, and physiology Year 3 (2nd semester): general surgery, general internal medicine, pathological anatomy, materia medica, toxicology, and medical analytics

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Year 4 (1st and 2nd semesters): special surgery, pathology, clinical surgery, and clinical internal medicine Year 5 (1st and 2nd semesters): special surgery, ophthalmology, special pathology, clinical surgery, and surgical operation exercise.72 Compared with Müller and Hoffmann’s curriculum, where a significant amount of time was allocated to basic subjects of modern medicine, such as anatomy, surgery, and internal medicine, Schultze’s curriculum signified the specialization of medical education in Japan. Even at the preparatory school, the most advanced Darwinian evolutionary theories were taught by Hilgendorf.73 However, the degree of the intensification of medical education in Japan as revealed through Schultze’s revised curriculum should not be overestimated. As he himself wrote in his report to the German Ministry of Foreign Affairs in October 1877, during his first three-year tenure from 1875–7, only thirty-one pathological dissections were performed, largely due to the strong Japanese aversion to the desecration of human cadavers.74 Indeed, it would take one or two decades more for the Japanese to fully appreciate the benefit of anatomical dissection for medical education.75 The second important task Schultze was charged with was the coordination of the medical school’s disparate teaching personnel; significantly, this mission also marked the transitional nature of the Schultze period. In 1877, there were as many as eleven German physicians and teachers at the medical school. The problem, however, was that every single physician or teacher, according to Schultze, “was operating independently on the most disparate schedule and terms and conditions, and was not particularly inclined to recognize central authority.”76 To solve this problematic and chaotic structure, a regular faculty meeting (Lehrerconferenz) was organized and chaired by Schultze. Over the course of these meetings, however, Schultze subsequently encountered an even bigger problem: the Japanese generally and tacitly accepted the suggestions from the faculty meeting, but at the same time staunchly refused to recognize the authority of the gathering.77 In contrast to his predecessors Müller and Hoffmann, who were bestowed with virtually unlimited executive power in their management of the medical school, the newcomer Schultze found himself being demoted from an independent contractor to a mere employee in the construction of the house of Japanese modern medical science. It should not be assumed, however, that Schultze faced problems at the medical school greater than those encountered by Müller and

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Hoffmann. Unlike Müller and Hoffmann, who were under constant pressure and often frustrated, Schultze could freely teach advanced subjects of modern medical science to his students, who were markedly better prepared in the German language. In stark contrast to Müller’s descriptions of his pupils, Schultze’s account of the students he encountered is highly complimentary. For example, Schultze glowingly wrote as follows about his charges: The students are, without exception, easy to deal with, polite, industrious, eager to learn, and often highly gifted. They frequently show independent opinions and a certain distrust against the lecturers … Less good characteristics are vanity, superficiality, the lack of logical thinking and sharpness of judgment, and the inability to differentiate essential from trivial things … Their diligence and performance can be described as thoroughly satisfactory. In terms of manual dexterity, operating skill, and charting, the average Japanese student exceeds the performance of our own students in Germany.78

Perceptive in matters of detail, although harsh at some points, Schultze’s assessment suggests that a significant improvement in student quality had occurred within a decade. Perhaps most significantly, the students that Schultze instructed were to become the next generation of Japanese physicians who would replace their German teachers entirely and would try to lead the medicalization of Japanese society with their own hands rather than using borrowed ones. However, the relative autonomy and modest successes that Schultze enjoyed in his first years of teaching Japanese students turned out to be transitory. By the time Julius Scriba replaced Schultze in 1881, the status of German physicians had deteriorated to the point that their presence was simply that of an appendage to the faculty body of the medical school, rather than the institutional backbone of the facilities. The “flowering future” that Ambassador Theodor von Holleben envisioned in 1874 had dissipated for the Germans by 1881. Marginalized Souls: The Last German Physicians, Erwin Baelz and Julius Scriba If one walks through the Akamon (Red Gate), the symbolic main entrance of the University of Tokyo, one soon passes the Institute of Medical Science building. Turning left immediately in the direction of Sanshirō Pond, one encounters two massive sculptures from 1907,

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rather hidden inside the inner garden of the university’s medical library. These bronze sculptures (see figure 0.1, above) are busts of two German physicians, Erwin Otto Eduard Baelz (1849–1913) and Julius Karl Scriba (1848–1905), who worked respectively as a professor of internal medicine and as a professor of surgery at the university, the singular institution of higher education founded in 1877. Hailed as the founding fathers of modern medical science in Japan, Baelz and Scriba have become synonymous with the legacy of modern German medical education in Japan and have been recognized as the symbolic figures of German-Japanese collaboration. Of these two physicians, Baelz in particular has received the lion’s share of attention from historians and the Japanese public alike. His astounding twenty-six-year tenure as a professor of internal medicine, his marriage to a Japanese wife,79 his status as a court physician to the Meiji emperor, and his obsessive research on Japanese hot springs,80 all seem to have cemented his historical popularity among the Japanese. Furthermore, in describing his teaching and clinical activities, most historians have located the Baelz period as the apex of German influence on Japanese modern medical science.81 It is certainly true that, as I will show in subsequent chapters of this book, Baelz’s influences on several generations of Japanese medical students, both in anthropology and bacteriology, were pivotal and enduring. Nevertheless, the institutional status of Baelz as the zenith of German influence in Japan needs to be qualified. As I will argue in this chapter, the period in which Baelz worked was actually the stage when the Japanese completed the process of gaining academic independence, at least institutionally, from their German teachers in Japan. Although the Japanese continued to rely on German medical science, not least in sending Japanese students to study in German universities, their reliance on German teachers – at least on Japanese soil – ended with Baelz. Ultimately, the German attempt to use medical science as a propa­ gandistic method of influence in Japan failed in the face of Japanese rational eclecticism coupled with their strong desire to establish an independent academic tradition. The trend towards diminishing German influence had already begun from the period of Schultze; it had had its day by the time Baelz worked in Japan. The dynamics between Germany and Japan were now completely reversed, and final decision-making power was at the discretion of the Japanese. The first sign of this role reversal is evident even in the recruiting process. In the beginning, as we saw earlier, the Japanese government

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Erwin Baelz (wearing hat) with his students in July 1880. Sitting next to Baelz (to his right) are Emil August Wilhelm Schultze, Johann Frederik Eijkmann, and Alexander Langgaard. Courtesy of the University of Tokyo Medical Library.

submitted requests for physicians to Germany either through the German embassy in Tokyo or through its own embassy in Berlin, and included a number of requirements, such as a minimum length of tenure, compensation, and required teaching fields. In response to these requests, the German government selected military physicians in order to advance German interests in Japan. That was the case with the selection of Müller, Hoffmann, and Schultze. The selection of Baelz reversed this pattern and removed the power of selection from the German government. Interestingly, Baelz himself arranged for the job in Tokyo through a rather fortuitous meeting with an unnamed Japanese official who had come under his care at a Leipzig university clinic where Baelz worked as a senior assistant. After securing the Japanese official’s recommendation, Baelz was in touch with Aoki Shūzō, the Japanese ambassador in Berlin, and a contract was signed on 3 January 1876.82 Finally, on 3 March 1876, Baelz sent a request to the Ministry of Foreign

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Affairs of Saxony, which in turn was relayed to the German Ministry of Foreign Affairs, to permit his travel to Japan.83 In short, the choice of Baelz for the head position in Tokyo was completely out of the control of the German government. The selection of a civilian physician proved to be beneficial for the Japanese as well, one reason being that the contract with Baelz was not subject to the approval of governmental agencies in Germany. Although German ministries were generally willing to help Japan, the Japanese government was at the mercy of the German government when the former requested the renewal or extension of the contract for military physicians. For instance, when the initial three-year contract with Schultze was set to expire in 1878, Aoki Shūzo had to send a long letter asking for Schultze’s secondment to be extended for another three-anda-half years.84 Because he was not officially sent by the German government as a military physician, Baelz’s stay in Japan was different from those of Müller and Hoffmann. Müller and Hoffmann had the mission of proselytizing for German medicine, German science, and the German nation state. In contrast, Baelz envisioned his journey to Japan as no more than a curious European relaying the torch of enlightenment to Asia. “I  am,” wrote Baelz in his New Year resolution of 1876, “to play a part in the diffusion of western civilization among a gifted population eager for knowledge.”85 Baelz was an enlightened intellectual before he was a German. In addition, in the course of his actual practice and teaching in Japan, pecuniary considerations played a role in Baelz’s life. His predecessor Müller sought to avoid private practice as much as possible in order to concentrate on his duties at the medical school, and if he had to practise privately, he had always asked patients to come to the university clinic so that he could use the visit for instructional purposes.86 Conversely, Baelz, who already received the handsome amount of 16,200 marks as a yearly salary in 1876,87 saw the possibility of establishing a private practice as one of the key determining factors in his contract with the Japanese government. Indeed, when a new clinical hospital opened on 6 December 1878 at the university, Baelz anticipated a handsome stream of income in the form of money and expensive gifts from patients he treated privately, using his growing reputation as a “miracle worker” in many Japanese circles.88 Eventually, as John Bowers has argued, “Baelz’s practice was so lucrative that he was able to purchase property, most of it near spas, so that he could pursue his interest in balneotherapy. He was also able to acquire a country residence and a

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summer home on the lower slopes of Fujiyama.”89 Not surprisingly, the views on private practice of Baelz’s colleague Scriba were not much different; if anything, he was one step ahead of Baelz, because Scriba started charging for his services and asked his patients to pay him directly. Perhaps it is no wonder, then, that Scriba saw private patients at his home three afternoons a week,90 and even after the termination of his contract with the university in 1901, instead of returning to Germany, he decided to become chief surgeon at the newly founded St Luke’s Hospital in Tsukiji, Tokyo.91 Although it would be an exaggeration to label Baelz and Scriba as “money-seekers,” the very fact that they could find time to treat so many private patients shows that the medical education at the university was fully institutionalized by comparison with the early tumultuous days of Müller and Hoffmann. After holding examinations that included histology for five days in November of 1876, Baelz wrote that he was highly pleased with the results: “I could never understand how Wernich and Hilgendorf could say that it would be impossible to make efficient medical practitioners out of the Japanese … Although the examinees are to be graded in eight sections, I had to put quite half of them in the first class.”92 In fact, Baelz became increasingly concerned about the “over-­ Germanization” of medical science in Japan, criticizing the disproportionately heavy reliance on German theoretical lectures in medical education and the German emphasis on the “scientific” aspects of medicine, a trend of which he himself was a culprit. At the Tokyo Medical Congress of April 1902, Baelz delivered a speech where he expressed his preferences for a renewed focus on practicality in medical teaching: When, here in Japan, I have spoken of the need for practical instruction, I  have often been criticized, and referred back to Germany, with the remark that in that country special stress is laid upon the theoretical and scientific aspects of medicine. Well, in Germany the syllabus has recently been reorganized. Why? Because it had been found that too much stress had been laid on medical “science,” whilst practical “experience” had been ignored. Less theory, more practice!93

The views of the German physicians in Japan had indeed come full circle: only thirty years earlier, Müller had lamented the way the Japanese viewed medical science as a trade secret, not as a “science.” Barely a generation later, the problem was entirely the other way around.

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However, in the course of pursuing his new agenda, which promoted the idea that “medicine is an art as well as a science,” Baelz became perceptibly marginalized at the university. Furthermore, after the appointment of Ōsawa Kenji in April 1877 as the first Japanese professor at the medical school, the process of replacing German teachers with Japanese physicians accelerated. In 1885, Koganei Yoshikiyo, who had studied anatomy in Strasbourg and Berlin, supplanted Joseph Disse, and in the same year, Ogata Masanori, who had researched hygiene with Max von Pettenkoffer in Munich, joined the medical faculty. By the academic year 1893–4, there remained only two German physicians, Baelz and Scriba, while nineteen Japanese faculty members were engaged in teaching various highly specialized fields of medical science from pathological anatomy to bacteriology. By 1900, this shift had even reached the point where Baelz decided to retire voluntarily. “I have known for a long time that in the medical faculty there has been a movement towards independence,” wrote Baelz in his diary of 18 April 1900. However, it was simply too much for him to bear plans for a new hospital and an outpatient department practically finished without his consultation. “I could not endure that I should be induced to stay on and should at the same time be coldshouldered in all important questions. That was the form of treatment which I found intolerable.”94 Although, after a request from the Japanese faculty members, Baelz subsequently recanted his notice of intended resignation in May, it was clear that the damage had already been inflicted. In the modernization of medical science and education in Japan, the days of borrowed hands were numbered. Conclusion In this chapter, I have argued that the fundamental changes in the establishment of modern medical science in Japan came with the arrival of the German physicians Müller and Hoffmann. Their institutional legacy in the form of the continuation of German doctors in Tokyo however was relatively short-lived; by the turn of the twentieth century, the dynamics of the relations became so reversed that German physicians were at the mercy of the Japanese desire for complete independence from their German teachers. Ultimately, however, the Germans did not emerge from Japan with completely empty hands. Even though they could not achieve everything they initially might have hoped, Müller could proudly claim that

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his painstaking and arduous efforts in Japan resulted in the modification of the prevailing Anglo-Saxon learning trends of the early Meiji period. “When we arrived,” Müller recalls, “technology and everything related to the sea was in the hands of the English, finance and education primarily in the hands of the Americans, and military affairs under the control of the French.” As he saw it, things had now changed, and not only in medicine: “The Japanese confidence in German knowledge has been getting stronger and stronger, and I do not need to mention here again that the Japanese government turned to the German government and to German individuals repeatedly in fields such as the police system, administration, and construction.”95 But, in the end, it was still medical science that Japanese students continued to seek out in Germany. While all German doctors were “fired” from the university by the turn of the twentieth century, they were replaced by none other than their own students, whom they had exhorted to go and study in Germany. The next chapter will introduce the Japanese medical men who found their way to Germany in search of ultimate knowledge.

Chapter 3

Socialized Intellect: Intellectual and Communal Journeys of Japanese Doctors in Germany

Having lunch at Berlin’s Hotel Garni zum Deutschen Kaiser on Schadowstraße on 12 October 1884, Hashimoto Tsunatsune (1845–1909), a surgeon major general on his second sojourn in Germany, reminded Mori Rintarō (1862–1922), a twenty-two-year-old fledgling first lieutenant in the Army Medical Corps, of his duty while in Berlin, along with a rule of thumb for living in a foreign country: “You have two responsibilities to our government: to study hygiene and to learn about the German Army’s Medical Corps. You won’t learn how things operate here unless you are a keen observer.”1 The very next day, and two days after his arrival in Berlin, Mori made a visit to Dr Aoki Shūzō, the Japanese minister to the German Empire. While duly emphasizing the importance of his studies in that Mori was the recipient of an army stipend, Aoki also encouraged Mori to focus his “keen observation” on other aspects of his stay in Berlin – on German lives and people. “Learning isn’t limited to reading books,” exhorted Aoki. “If you carefully observe how Europeans think, how they live, and what their manners are, your trip abroad will have been warranted.”2 This combination of admonition to study and advice to observe was not custom-tailored for Mori Rintarō, also known as Mori Ōgai, who later became a literary giant of modern Japan as well as surgeon general of the Imperial army.3 To every Japanese medical student who set foot on German soil sponsored by governmental agencies such as the army or the Ministry of Education, it was a stern reminder of his utmost obligation: his academic stay in this country was not for personal advancement or pleasure, but for the progress of medical practices in Japan.4 But simultaneously it was a consolatory confirmation that his scholarly endeavour was not a solitary pursuit, but an indispensable

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part of a collective undertaking that would catapult his underwhelming country into imperial glory. This oft-cited snippet from the story of Mori Rintarō, who spent four years in Germany from 1884 to 1888, is revealing but simultaneously deceiving in terms of the experience of Japanese medical students in imperial Germany. It is revealing because it shows the conscious and collective nature of Japan’s attempt to acquire medical knowledge as thoroughly and expeditiously as possible through the deployment of elite medical men. It is equally deceiving however, for most of the Japanese medical men in Germany were recipients neither of fellowships nor of any academic merit or recognition. In most cases, they had failed to get into prestigious medical colleges in Japan and as such decided to try their luck in Germany. Between 1866 and 1914, almost 25,000 Japanese students went abroad to gain new knowledge.5 In studying these Japanese overseas students (ryūgakusei), earlier scholars have emphasized the unprecedentedly heroic achievements of the so-called founding fathers of modern Japanese institutions.6 Recognized as “modernizers” who successfully transformed feudal Japan into a modern nation state, these prominent students were the epitome of integrity, sacrifice, and hard work. Regarding their contributions to the field of medical science, too, the overall picture historians have drawn is not that different. Of the 1150 Japanese practitioners of medical science who spent precious parts of their lives in Germany between 1866 and 1914, several names such as  Nagayo Sensai (1838–1902),7 Gotō Shinpei (1857–1929),8 Kitasato Shibasaburō (1853–1931),9 and Mori Rintarō10 have attracted the attention of historians for their stellar achievements in the field of medical science, bureaucracy, and military service. Read, for instance, the almost epic tale of Kitasato Shibasaburō by his biographer, Miyajima Mikinosuke, who used him as an exemplary portrait of how ingenious pioneers changed the course of Japanese history. “Kitasato was one of those who had been forced to drink the bitter cup, and to take the long voyage of some two months through the Indian Ocean as a steerage passenger. All the hardships they had to bear did but steel them in the fortitude with which they resolutely pressed forward in their studies for the betterment of the political, social and cultural conditions of their own country.”11 Less dramatic in tone, but similar in admiration is the biography of Satō Susumu, in which the author unabashedly praises Satō’s academic prowess by quoting an episode when Satō was the only student who could answer a question from a German professor during a

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lecture on anatomy,12 a difficult, if not impossible, achievement for someone who had only begun learning the German language a year prior. I do not intend to deny the historical importance of these advanced guards of modern medical science and their far-reaching influences on the medicalization of Japanese society. Instead, what I do try in this chapter is to draw a more accurate picture of Japanese medical students in Germany by paying attention even to the more obscure and ordinary figures sitting backstage in the theatre of history. Contrary to the popular historical perception that only highly qualified students could study in Germany, in fact, there was a continuous deterioration in the quality of Japanese medical students in Germany. To illustrate, on 1 November 1907, a German newspaper in Tsingtao, China, Tsingtauer Neueste Nachrichten, published a striking report quoting Hinode Shinbun in Kyoto that 70 to 80 per cent of the Japanese medical students studying in German medical schools had only graduated from junior high school in Japan, and therefore were not permitted to attend medical schools in Japan. Instead, they received “certificates” from the Japanese embassy in Berlin that said they were ready for college education, and using these dubious academic credentials, they made their ways into medical schools in Germany.13 The situation did not get better even after the revelation of the situation in national newspapers in both Germany and Japan. Clearly showing how the influx of “less qualified” students to German universities in the preceding decade had been a concern for both German universities and Japanese professors in Japan, Professor Aoyama Tanemichi, the dean of the medical faculty of Tokyo Imperial University and himself a former student in Berlin, had to write a letter to the German chancellor, Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, in April 1911, in support of Dr Manabe Kaichirō, who found it difficult to find a suitable adviser in Germany. “In the last few years Japanese medical students of inferior quality repeatedly came to Germany, so that the medical faculties of German universities had, perhaps not completely without reason, a certain distrust of Japanese visitors,” writes Aoyama. “There is no reason to have such a suspicion in this case.”14 In other words, the majority of the Japanese medical students even at the peak of the German-Japanese medical interaction at the turn of the twentieth century were not the cream of the crop of Japanese practitioners of medical science. In dealing with the prosopographical aspects and intellectual and social worlds of Japanese medical students studying in Germany, therefore, this chapter moves beyond the “great men” narratives that permeate Japanese historiography by incorporating the

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kaleidoscopic lives of “less heroic” medical students who accounted for the majority of Japanese medical men in Germany from 1868 to 1914. In providing a fuller analysis of the intellectual and social lives of Japanese students in Germany, the concept of “socialized intellect” provides a meaningful conceptual framework. Strongly influenced by social network theory and by the theories of Pierre Bourdieu, historian Terrence Jackson developed the concept of “socialized intellect” for his study of a community of Dutch Learning intellectuals during the late Tokugawa period.15 By definition, a socialized intellect as constructed by Jackson refers to a group of intellectuals with a distinctive cultural identity, which in turn becomes reinforced through socialization. Although Jackson’s work focused more on clarifying how the creation of a communication network was essential to the success of Dutch Learning in pre-modern Japan, the concept itself can be effectively applied to the case of Japanese medical students in Germany. For example, there was a tightly knit society of Japanese expatriates which not only provided the most immediate logistical help to “fresh-off-theboat” newcomers,16 but also functioned as a peculiar milieu where Japanese students developed their own social and cultural networks. Importantly, a typical Japanese student in a big city such as Berlin or Munich was not a solitary soul in an isolated European city. In addition, the concept of socialized intellect shows that through a peculiar cultural and social experience in Germany, these “socialized intellects” could exert their influence more effectively and thoroughly in Japanese bureaucracy and military institutions when they returned to Japan. Building upon these themes, the first section of this chapter introduces the study abroad program of Meiji Japan. This section on the institutional framework is then followed by a collective portrait of Japanese medical students in Berlin using statistical information. Then, I move on to follow their intellectual journeys among the great teachers of medicine in Germany. Finally, I reconstruct the social life of Japanese students; through a detailed analysis of Japanese boarding houses, cafés, and various social gatherings, I reveal the close networking of Japanese students and their subculture. In Search of Knowledge: Meiji Japan’s Study Abroad Program In the early years of the Meiji era, the Japanese government was committed to transforming the country in accordance with Western models of modernization. One of the first and foremost steps taken by the

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Japanese government to achieve their prime goal of building a “rich country, strong army” (fukoku kyōhei) was to employ foreign teachers and specialists (oyatoi gaikokujin), as we learned in the case of the invitation of German physicians to Japan. During the period between 1868 and the turn of the century, as many as 2400 foreign experts or “live machines” took part in transforming the Japanese state into a modern nation,17 and the Japanese government paid handsomely for it. In 1877 and 1878, for instance, the Meiji government paid 98,279 yen as salaries for the foreign faculty members of Tokyo University, when the total expenditure of the university was 282,035 yen.18 At the same time, the Meiji government sent many young Japanese abroad for study, placing the greatest priority on training in the applied sciences (such as engineering and industry) and the medical sciences. While it is gratuitous to repeat all the details regarding Japanese overseas students,19 it is important to note the general characteristics of Meiji Japan’s study abroad program that remain pertinent to the discussion of Japanese medical students in imperial Germany, such as the organization of the statesponsored study abroad program, the criteria for student selection, regulations regarding students, and the nuts and bolts of privately funded overseas study. In any description of the Meiji study abroad program, it should be remembered first of all that it was the Tokugawa shogunate and several domains in their twilight period which first sent students abroad.20 Out of the desperate realization that one needed to learn barbarian tricks in order to defeat and expel barbarians, the Tokugawa shogunate and various representatives sent their samurai to the United States21 and Europe either as attachés in diplomatic missions or as overseas students in their own right. For instance, some eighteen samurai from Satsuma were chosen in 1865 to study at London University and charged with a mission of expediently acquiring necessary knowledge (especially that of military and naval technology) and searching for the “essence of the west.”22 The Meiji study abroad program that officially began in 1869 was, in this respect, a continuation of this ambitious yet anxious search for new knowledge and technology in the West, as clearly emphasized in the fifth article of the famous Charter Oath of April 1868, a foundational document of Meiji Japan: “Knowledge shall be sought throughout the world so as to strengthen the foundations of imperial rule.”23 How can one periodize the Meiji study abroad program? According to Japanese historian Ishizuki Minoru, there were three different phases during the Meiji era following the aforementioned elementary pursuit

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of foreign knowledge by the Tokugawa shogunate from 1862 to 1867: the expansion stage from 1868–74; the consolidation stage from 1875– 81; and, finally, the steady stage from 1882 onward.24 Notably, these three different phases are distinguished by respective changes in government policies, the quality of students, and the locations and conditions of study. The expansion stage from 1868 to 1874 is best described as “an experimental and transitional period of overseas study.”25 Beginning with the 1868 order recalling all the students dispatched by the Tokugawa shogunate back to Japan, thus demarcating a fresh beginning under new leadership, the Meiji government enacted a series of regulations between 1869 and 1873, such as “Regulations Concerning Study Abroad” (“Kaigai Ryūgaku Kisoku” or “Nine Rules of Conduct”) in 1869, “Proc­ lamation 958” in 1871, “Educational Ordinance” (“Gakusei”) in 1872, and “Additions to the Educational Ordinance” (“Gakusei Tsuika”) in 1873.26 With these regulations, the Meiji government not only tried to bring some formal order to the previously chaotic overseas study, but also strove to strictly regulate overseas students, as the process was such a costly investment for a neophyte country. As one measure, in 1872, the Ministry of Education spent approximately 12 per cent of its entire annual expenditure to support study abroad.27 According to these regulations, only highly qualified students, governmental or private, were allowed to study abroad. The reality, however, was far from ideal. Many overseas students were not academically competent enough to pursue an advanced study program, and some of them obviously derailed themselves by shirking their studies.28 In response to mounting domestic criticism of the governmental spending on these unqualified overseas students, the Meiji government finally suspended the study abroad program in December 1873, ordering all students abroad to return within sixty-five days for re-evaluation.29 Only with another series of regulations30 did the Meiji government resume the study abroad program in 1875. Three distinctive developments defined this “consolidation stage” from 1875 to 1881. First of all, the Meiji government tried to impose even stricter controls on government-sponsored students, including adopting a system in which loans had to be repaid after the students’ return by work in specified governmental fields. Furthermore, governmental oversight was imposed on the program by transferring the responsibility for student supervision from consuls (benmushi) to designated student advisers in each country.31 This renewed attention of the Japanese government on fostering

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qualified specialists using their limited resources and energy was made possible by an improvement in the quality of overseas students, at least those who were awarded government sponsorship. As to the reasons for this sudden improvement in the quality of students, scholars Ishizuki and Kashioka locate them in the overall enhancement of higher education in Japan, specifically the decent college-level education students could now receive from the Kaisei Gakkō (later Tokyo University), as well as the newly revised overseas-students selection process whereby only the very best students from Kaisei Gakkō could apply for a scholarship.32 Since only four or five students per year were awarded the cherished Ministry of Education scholarship,33 one had to graduate first or second in one’s class in order to become a government-sponsored overseas student.34 Parallel to this tactic of choice and concentration was the deregulation of the restrictions on private students, which inadvertently allowed an influx en masse of private students into Europe and the United States – students who had no obligation whatsoever to the Japanese government. As a result, the overall picture of ryūgakusei during this period showed a growing dichotomy between elite students and private students, where the latter were generally regarded as squandering precious resources and energy in foreign countries. Tokyo NichiNichi newspaper, for instance, reported in 1875 on the public contempt for private students: “Recently a large number of overseas students have gone to Europe and America, but they are simply interested in acquiring elementary qualifications … They return to Japan as soon as possible to seek connections and high social status, and make great efforts to get themselves concubines as quickly as possible.”35 The widening gap between the elite ryūgakusei and private students became increasingly unbridgeable during the final stage from 1882 onward, and was most glaringly manifested in the selection of destinations for overseas study. While a clear majority of private students (9645 out of 14,686 between 1881 and 1905) decided to travel to the United States,36 an increasingly large number of the scholarship recipients of the Ministry of Education chose to study in Germany. While during the consolidation period of overseas study (1875–81) sponsored students of the Ministry of Education were evenly divided among Germany, Great Britain, France, and the United States, from 1882 a majority (88 out of 108 between 1882 and 1897) decided, regardless of their academic disciplines, to go to Germany,37 as “the German winds came blowing to Japan.”38 Germany – especially Berlin – became a magnet for the future power elites of Japan, and was where a distinctive social collegiality developed

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among Japanese students, including those of medical science. In the long run, this meant that Japanese physicians in Germany were closely connected to a core network of leading elites who could exert considerable influence in academic, bureaucratic, and military administrations. In short, the study abroad program was a socializing process as much as it was an intellectual journey, and at the centre of these dual processes was the city of Berlin, the prime destination in Germany. Contours of Lives: A Collective Portrait of Japanese Medical Students By the time that nine medical students from the Daigaku Tōkō were selected to become the first official overseas students to go to Germany in 1870,39 Germany had already become the primary destination for advanced studies in medical science. How many Japanese medical students were staying in Germany between 1866 and 1914? How many of them studied and stayed in Berlin, the world’s centre of medical science? Accurately answering the first question is nearly impossible for a number of reasons. Let us take Berlin, for example. As a start, Berlin University’s official matriculation registers (Verzeichnis des Personals und der Studierenden an der Königlichen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität zu Berlin) do not list all Japanese students who resided and studied in Berlin. Those Japanese students who were simply auditing courses and observing surgical operations, or who were just visiting Berlin University on their way to other German cities were conspicuously missing. Furthermore, the data does not include those who were at various pivotal research institutes in Germany, such as the Robert Koch Institute for Infectious Diseases, let alone those who came to Berlin through individual contacts.40 Finally, the data does not include female medical students such as Takahashi Mizuko (1852–1927) and Urata Tada (1873–1936), who were not allowed to register at Berlin University due to the university’s men-only policy, in effect until the year 1908.41 To make matters even more complicated, Japanese students constantly changed their majors,42 not to mention their universities. Using available German and Japanese data,43 I claim that there were a total of 1150 Japanese medical students in German-speaking areas (including Austria-Hungary and Switzerland) between 1868 and 1914.44 Among these 1150 Japanese, 293 officially enrolled for at least one semester at Berlin University to study medical science.45 Trailed by 134 law students, medical students were the largest subgroup of Japanese students who enrolled at Berlin University.46 These 293 students were in turn

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joined by a total of 334 students who stayed in Berlin at some point during their sojourn in Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Switzerland without officially registering at Berlin University: they either worked at various research institutes, as Mori Rintarō and Kitasato Shibasaburō did, or they attended the numerous private lessons offered by Berlin physicians. In other words, as many as 625 Japanese medical men and two women47 – students, young medical practitioners, and older physicians – studied in Berlin’s prominent facilities of medical science between 1868 and 1914. This number of 627 Japanese medical students in Berlin, of course, pales in comparison to the roughly 3000 American medical men who flocked to Berlin during the same period.48 Yet, this evaluation should be placed in the proper historical context. Unlike the United States, whose medical students had a long tradition of studying in European institutions and facilities in cities such as Edinburgh, London, and Paris from colonial days onward,49 Japan only began to modernize its medical education in full force in the mid-1860s, and sent its first medical student to Germany only in 1868. Furthermore, the absolute number of physicians that public and private medical institutions in Japan could produce at this time should also be pointed out. After the first cohort of twenty-five students who entered Tokyo Medical School in 1871 graduated in 1876, the University of Tokyo produced altogether only 205 graduates with degrees in medicine in ten years until 1886, the year that the university reformed itself into an imperial university.50 Even with the explosive growth of the number of private medical schools after the promulgation of the basic medical regulation in 1874, the number of physicians with university degrees from all public and private schools came only to 407 by 1886.51 Finally, the relative geographical proximity should also be considered in this comparison: if one departed from New York bound for Antwerp on the Red Star Line in 1885, it took only thirteen to fifteen days to sail across the Atlantic.52 Technological innovations after 1890 further reduced the time required for the trans-Atlantic journey; in 1890, it took only seven to eight days from New York to Hamburg or Bremen on Norddeutscher Lloyd’s ocean liner.53 Compare this to the exhausting seventy-day journey of Satō Susumu, the first study passport holder from the Meiji government, who had to travel from Yokohama via New York to Hamburg in 1869,54 or to those of Aoki Shūzo and Hagiwara Sankei, the first two foreign students sent to Germany on domainal dimes in October 1868, who had to endure a

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seventy-day seafaring journey from Nagasaki to Marseille.55 Even in 1884, it took forty-five days for Mori Rintarō to travel from Yokohama to Marseille.56 Extreme as it may sound, Tamai Kisak’s caravan journey from Japan through Korea via Siberia to Germany took no less than fifteen months (although it probably including several side trips).57 Considering the required travel time, therefore, 627 Japanese students in Berlin over the span of forty years is no small number, even compared with the 3000 Americans over the same period. A detailed prosopographical overview based on a statistical analysis of Japanese medical students enrolled in Berlin University reveals several important features of this special group of people. In light of the length of their journey, surprisingly, most Japanese students stayed less than a year in Berlin. Thirty-two per cent, or ninety-four students, stayed in Berlin only for one semester, and 29 per cent, or eighty-four students, stayed for two semesters. Overall only 2.7 per cent, or eight students, stayed more than eight semesters.58 The fact that some Japanese students studied for only one or two semesters in Berlin after travelling almost two months to reach Germany, is notable and worth exploration. Three correlated factors, namely, the average age of students, funding sources, and the German traditions of Lernfreiheit (academic freedom) and peregrinatio academica (academic pilgrimage or educational journey), provide an explanation for the relatively short stays of many Japanese students in Berlin. The average age of students who enrolled at Berlin University between 1870 and 1914 was 32.7 years old. Eighty-three students, or 33.6 per cent, were in the age group of 31–5, and they were followed by sixty-nine, or 27.9%, in the age group of 26–30. Closely trailing these two groups was the age group of 35–40, which had fifty-two, or 21.1%, students. What is striking here is that while there were sixteen, or 6.5%, students between the ages of 41 and 45, there were only seventeen, or 6.9%, students between the ages of 21 and 25. Furthermore, over the course of forty years, the average age of students who went to Berlin increased continuously: between 1870 and 1879, it was 26.3 years; between 1880 and 1889, it increased to 27.04; after reaching 33.86 during the first decade of the twentieth century, it finally approached the apex of 35.41 years between 1910 and 1914.59 What does the relatively “old” age of Japanese students reveal about studying abroad in Berlin? First and foremost, it proves that the purpose of Japanese medical students in Berlin was to acquire additional education and practice in medicine, rather than to pursue a degree in

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German universities. Indeed, most of the Japanese students (83.6%) registered at Berlin University were graduates of the medical faculty of Tokyo University and already had academic degrees in medical science; therefore, it was not in their best interests to obtain an advanced degree from a German university. This situation is further demonstrated by the fact that only six Japanese medical students out of 293 enrollees received their doctorate (Promotion) from Berlin University, and out of those six, three were of the very first generation of Japanese medical students who did not have a chance to study medical education under the tutelage of German physicians in Japan.60 The fact that the majority of Japanese medical students in Berlin were graduates of the medical faculty of Tokyo University is quite important when the situation of Berlin University is compared with that of Ludwig-Maximilians University of Munich, where between 1880 and 1914, a total of 143 Japanese students registered as students.61 In contrast to Berlin University, where only six doctorates were granted to Japanese medical students, Munich University conferred a stunning number of 132 medical doctorates upon Japanese students between 1889 and 1916.62 Previous scholars have cautiously suggested various reasons for this disparity between two of the most renowned educational institutions in Germany. Hartmann surmises that complicated bureaucratic procedures, strict admission and exam regulations, along with difficulties in finding suitable advisers in Berlin might have contributed to the lack of Japanese doctorate awardees in Berlin.63 In contrast, Noll claims that students generally tried to get their degrees from the university where the registration fee was the least expensive.64 Michael Rauck, in turn, conjectures that Munich University might have been the most liberal institution in conferring degrees by noting that some Japanese received their doctorates after only one semester of studies.65 Finally, and in partial agreement with Rauck, the Japanese historian Morikawa Jun estimates that the previous clinical experience of Japanese students in Japan contributed to this sudden outbreak of German doctorate-holders.66 Though all these factors might have contributed to the apparent discrepancy between Berlin and Munich, it is clear that the proportion of the graduates of Tokyo University at the respective universities was a distinguishing element. Compared with Berlin University, where 83.6  per cent of the Japanese students had graduated from Tokyo University, only five out of the 142 Japanese students at Munich University were graduates of Tokyo University.67 Notably, at a time

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when Tokyo University was the only nationally renowned and prestigious higher medical institution in Japan,68 its graduates did not feel compelled to pad their academic resumes with a second degree from Germany. In contrast, graduates from second-tier regional or private medical schools, to which most Munich students belonged, were in pursuit of the reputation that degrees from German universities could bestow upon them. One counterintuitive example of this résumé-padding is none other than Gotō Shinpei, arguably one of the most important figures of Japanese colonial medicine and its public health system, who occupied such diverse and pivotal positions as chief civilian governor of Taiwan, director of the South Manchurian Railway, mayor of Tokyo, and, eventually, home minister and foreign minister. Gotō started his medical education at age seventeen by entering Sugakawa Medical School, a fledgling two-year program installed in Fukushima Prefecture.69 After interning at the Aichi Prefectural Hospital in Nagoya and acquiring practical skills from Ishiguro Tadanori, the chief surgeon of the army hospital during the Satsuma Rebellion of 1877, Gotō eventually secured a position in 1882 at the Health Bureau of the Ministry of Home Affairs at the invitation of Nagayo Sensai, the director of the bureau. A doctor and civil servant who was full of vitality and fresh ideas and who often annoyed his superiors by bombarding them with dreamy proposals, Gotō did not, however, have much chance of being promoted at the bureau, which was full of Tokyo University graduates. As historian Yukiko Hayase affirms, “The only solution lay in going abroad to obtain necessary credentials,” and that was exactly what Gotō did.70 In April 1890, borrowing money from his father-in-law, Yasuba Yasukazu, prefectural governor of Aichi, Gotō left for Germany. After staying almost a year in Berlin, where he worked under his former colleague and competitor at the Health Bureau, Kitasato Shibasaburō, Gotō moved to Munich to continue his study with Max von Pettenkofer, a well-known hygienist. What is remarkable and directly pertinent to our discussion of Munich University is that Gotō stayed in Munich only four months, and during that short period, he passed a medical examination, wrote a doctoral thesis, and obtained the degree of medical doctor in 1891.71 I would not argue that Gotō “bought” a doctorate from Munich University, a practice that was nevertheless quite prevalent among Japanese students in Munich. Futaki Kenzō (1873–1966), who stayed in Munich for three years starting from 1903, recalled that “by sprinkling money among instructors and assistants,” it was easy to get a thesis

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fabricated and come home with a degree.72 Rather, the secret of Gotō’s speedy graduation lay in the fact that his thirty-four-page doctoral thesis, “A Comparative Study of Medical Police and Medical Administration in Japan and Other States” (Vergleichende Darstellung der Medizinalpolizei und Medizinalverwaltung in Japan und anderen Staaten) was a translation of his earlier work on the principles of national hygiene, Kokka eisei genri, which he had published in August 1889.73 What Gotō did was simply translate his previous work in Japanese into German and then submit it as a doctoral thesis. Without doubt, Munich was the centre for Japanese “doctorate hunters,” and Gotō was one of them. To be sure, it was not only Japanese students in Munich who came to Germany for the sake of reputation. Students in Berlin, who were mainly graduates of Tokyo University and therefore were not desperate to get their degrees from Berlin, were nonetheless well aware of the embellishment and elevated reputation their brief sojourns in Germany would provide. According to Kashioka Tomihide, by around 1890, “‘Germanism’ became so dominant at Tokyo University that one could not afford to not set foot in Germany to claim [a] topflight scholarship, whatever the field of study may have been, and whatever the ‘objective’ status of Germany in that particular field may have been.”74 In this respect, the episode of a scammer who falsely claimed to be a holder of a German medical doctorate shows us how infatuated Japanese society in the Meiji era was with the esteemed reputation of German medicine, just as the notorious saga of Wilhelm Voigt, that is, the “Captain of Köpenick,” in 1906 reveals the vestiges of militarism on a quotidian level in late imperial Germany.75 On 7 October 1901, the Japanese newspaper Yomiuri shinbun reported the arrest of twenty-sixyear-old Yasuda Gihei from Jōzū province. Claiming that he was a physician with a doctorate from Germany, Yasuda treated patients in the North Tama area, just north of Tokyo, until it was discovered that he did not have any licence. To avoid paying the fifty-yen fine, Yasuda fled and further scammed a few hundred yen from several people, including Nagata Genpei from Dōgun province, who must have firmly believed in the aura of the German medical doctorate. His escapade of course did not last long. After coming to Tokyo with his mistress Yanagita Yao, Yasuda was surreptitiously followed by Detective Shimoda and finally arrested at the Meijiza Theatre.76 Given this unquestionable acceptance of the prestige and authority of a German medical degree, it is not surprising that in the home offices of Japanese doctors who had studied in Germany, one could almost

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invariably find pictures taken in Germany; sometimes they even displayed pictures of their teachers in Germany in order to give the impression that these doctors came directly from the home of modern medical science. Takahashi Mizuho, the first female medical student to Germany, is a good example. At the age of thirty-eight, Takahashi, the third female registered physician in Meiji Japan, sailed to Germany in 1890 with money borrowed from an acquaintance. It was very difficult to get permission from the Meiji government to go abroad as a female physician, but it was even harder to overcome the barrier of the admissions policy towards women at Berlin University; entrance to medical school was completely closed to women until 1900 everywhere in Germany, and in Prussia until 1908.77 Determined, Takahashi attempted to enrol in Vienna University, but was also turned away. With the help of resident Japanese colleagues such as Kitasato, Sasaki Tōyō, and her landlady, Frau Marie von Lagerström, Takahashi was finally able to audit courses in gynecology from Dr R.M. Olshausen and Dr E. Martin. After staying only one year, however, she became ill and had to return to Japan.78 As such, she was not really a “student” of Olshausen and Martin. But after returning from her brief sojourn in Berlin, Takahashi made sure to put pictures of Dr Olshausen and his colleague, Dr Martin, in her newly opened private clinic in Nihonbashi, Tokyo. It was no secret that her popularity in Tokyo as a prominent physician who had studied in Germany was owed in no small part to this ostentatious public display of academic “credentials.”79 Of course, its status as the “symbolic capital” of Germanism was not the only reason for the increasing concentration of Japanese medical students in Berlin beginning in the 1880s. As a medical centre, Berlin offered the best possible choice available for Japanese medical men to combine both practical experience and symbolic achievement. There, one could learn from prominent physicians such as Wilhelm Waldeyer in anatomy, Emil Du Bois-Reymond and Hermann von Helmholtz in physiology, Bernhard von Langenbeck in surgery, Rudolf Virchow in pathology, Robert Koch in bacteriology, Paul Ehrlich in immunology and chemotherapy, and Adolf Gusserow in gynecology. Berlin also boasted diverse venues of medical education and research. Along with work at the research hospital Charité,80 one could also keep busy by visiting the University Clinic (Universitätsklinikum), the Jewish Hospital (Jüdisches Krankenhaus), and the Moabit Hospital (Krankenhaus Moabit), not to mention the numerous specialized research institutes such as

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the Institute for Pathology (Institut für Pathologie) or the Institute for Infectious Diseases (Institut für Infektionskrankheiten).81 In describing these unparalleled opportunities that only Berlin could offer, Horatio R. Bigelow, an American gynecologist, wrote excitedly from the city in 1885 that “the amount of operative work is tremendous, and students can examine as many women as they desire.”82 He further reported as to the variety of choices that this unique academic and research city presented: “One can begin with Dr. Schroeder’s operations at 7.30 in the morning, then rush away in time for Dr. Gusserow’s operations at 9 A.M., after which he may have time to indulge in a flying breakfast before going to Dr. Martin’s at 11. And so he can occupy himself until seven or eight o’clock in the evening with Obstetrics and Gynecology alone.”83 It was not just the American gynecologist who was deeply impressed by the abundant opportunities that Berlin provided. Satō Susumu (1845–1921), the first Asian degree holder of medicine from Berlin University, was startled and awed to see the abundance of corpses for dissection – fourteen cadavers for just one practice session as compared with only one for the whole year in Japan.84 Why, then, did Japanese students stay only briefly in this world centre of medical achievement? As explained earlier, these students did not have any compelling reasons to stay longer, such as to obtain a degree or to hoard symbolic capital, nor could they escape from the financial burden their extended stay would entail. Statistical analysis reveals that only a handful of students had funding sources, while the majority had to pay out of their own pockets. Between 1870 and 1914, only 23.8 per cent of students had a Ministry of Education scholarship, while 58.4 per cent had to rely on their own resources. While the percentage of Japanese students without any financial assistance was steady until the first decade of the twentieth century, it reached a new high of 69.1 per cent between 1910 and 1914. Indeed, without a stipend from the Ministry of Education, army, navy, or local governments that in general gradually increased from 600 yen per year (1867–77) to 1650 (1878–82) to 1800 yen (1883–1914), it was not easy to live in Berlin.85 Also while Berlin was certainly cheaper than Vienna,86 and while there were always those who had been born with a silver spoon in their mouths – Gartenlaube, a German family magazine, reports wealthy Japanese students who purchased golden pocket watches with a price tag between 170 and 300 thaler – it was still expensive for ordinary Japanese medical students to live.87 To live at a bare

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minimum level for six months in Berlin in 1885 required at least US$45, or around 180 German marks, according to one contemporary foreign medical practitioner.88 This amount should be considered an absolute minimum, however, since Bigelow himself had met “only one man who had sufficient strength of character, and with sufficient professional enthusiasm, to suffer the discomfort and to undergo the sacrifices which this minimum allowance entails.” To live in private family boarding houses, where most Japanese students stayed during their sojourns in Berlin, required anywhere from US$25 (100 marks) to US$50 (200 marks) per month.89 Mori Rintarō, who received a yearly stipend of 1000 yen from the army, for instance, mentioned in his diary that he paid 40 marks for a room and another 50 for boarding; with added cost of fuel, laundry, and other expenses, he estimated that it came to about 100 marks a month, a bare minimum to survive.90 There were extra costs that Japanese students had to consider: the necessary round-trip steamship fare back and forth to Japan; transportation within Germany; the matriculation fee; and various fees associated with courses. The relatively high age of many Japanese students also played a role in their financial difficulties. Being over thirty almost certainly meant that Japanese medical men had a wife and children in Japan, for whose well-being they were responsible during their absence. Ikeda Kensai, who later became the first dean of the medical faculty of Tokyo Imperial University, was one such Japanese medical student studying in Berlin. Although he was one of the first nine recipients of a state scholarship in 1870, he was hesitant to go abroad at the age of thirty as it meant quitting his relatively secure job as a university assistant and therefore putting his family into economic hardship.91 The solution he found in Berlin was to be extremely frugal and to send money to his family in Japan; for example, in his 21 May 1872 letter, Ikeda wrote that he was sending 450 Prussian thaler (or 300 Japanese yen in 1872) to his family in Japan.92 Other students who were less fortunate or less frugal than Ikeda had to cut their stays short.93 Finally, the European tradition of Peregrinatio academica (academic pilgrimage) and the German tradition of Lernfreiheit (freedom of learning) both functioned to make the average sojourn of Japanese students in Berlin, their primary destination in Germany, relatively short. From the early modern period, but especially from the eighteenth century, scholars and students throughout Europe went on journeys to acquire knowledge and wisdom that was not readily available in their home institutions or home countries.94 With its particularistic territorial

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structure derived from the Holy Roman Empire and the concomitant development of a major university in each state, Germany had an especially strong tradition of Peregrinatio academica. In addition, German universities boasted of their unlimited freedom of learning, the lack of compulsion in choosing courses, and the absence of divisions of students into classes.95 For Japanese students whose primary aim was to acquire as much knowledge and clinical experience as possible in a short period of time, Germany therefore offered the best opportunities available at the time.96 Berlin had one of the best medical education facilities for general study, surgery, gynecology, pathology, and anatomy, but in certain fields such as physiological chemistry and experimental physiology, the facilities in Heidelberg, Leipzig, or Strasbourg offered better opportunities.97 Japanese medical men were quick to take advantage of these numerous offerings, and almost every Japanese student studied in more than one German city. Freiburg and Strasbourg were the most frequently visited cities after Berlin, followed by Munich, Würzburg, and Heidelberg; Leipzig and Göttingen were also on the lists of Japanese students’ academic pilgrimages.98 Studying in at least two German cities meant less time in Berlin. A good example of a typical Japanese student in Germany is Miura Kinnosuke (1864–1950), who began his career as an assistant to Erwin Baelz, later became a professor at Tokyo Imperial University, and eventually was appointed court physician to the Taishō and Shōwa emperors. At the relatively young age of twenty-six, Miura began his study of internal medicine at Berlin University in April 1890. After one hectic semester at the university attending lectures by Hans Virchow (Rudolf Virchow’s son), researching at Gerhard’s laboratory for internal medicine, and learning bacteriology from Robert Koch, Kinnosuke moved to Marburg in October 1890 and studied pathological anatomy (with Marchand) and physiology (with Kurtz) until the following summer. In June of 1891, he moved to Heidelberg and studied neurology (with Herbe) until October that same year. Surprisingly, his journey did not stop there: after briefly returning to Berlin, he visited Paris and studied there for eight months before returning home to Japan in October 1892.99 Mori Rintarō is another student who did not want to spend his entire time in one German city. After studying for two and a half years in Leipzig, Dresden, and Munich, inspecting military hospitals, watersewage systems, bread factories, and prisons,100 Mori relocated to Berlin in April 1887 to perform research under the tutelage of Robert Koch.

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Mori first took a month-long lecture course on bacteriology from Fritz Frank (1856–1923) and Albert Fränkel (1848–?), and simultaneously embarked on a research project assigned to him by Koch.101 On fine days, Mori would accompany Koch and his students to inspect a water reservoir in the Berlin suburb of Stralau. Germany, as a global medical centre, attracted numerous eager and ambitious Japanese medical students. A fervent passion for academic advancement, persistent anxiety over financial insecurity, and the longing for a reputation back in their home country all combined to circumscribe the purposes and the lengths of the sojourns of Japanese medical students in Berlin. No matter how short or long the durations of their stays might have been, their stays in Germany had one common and all too obvious goal: to study and research medical science. The discussion will now move to the intellectual journeys of Japanese medical students in Germany. The Intellectual Journeys of Japanese Medical Students When Japanese medical students engaged themselves in modern medical science in Germany between 1868 and 1914, German medical science itself was undergoing a fundamental change in its nature, and the state of German medical education reflected this transformation. First, on a methodological level, the decades-long controversy over the efficacy of laboratory teaching versus more traditional and clinical training at the bedside was settled in favour of laboratory training and scientific study; therefore, laboratory science became the principal component of a German medical education.102 Second, on an epistemological level, a paradigmatic shift was taking place, from the primacy of the pathological explanation of disease based on scientific empiricism, as exemplified by Rudolf Virchow’s cellular pathology,103 to the so-called era of bacteriology based on the germ theory of disease espoused by Robert Koch. While this transformation was occurring throughout Europe and quite conspicuously in France under Louis Pasteur (1822–95), it occurred most noticeably in Germany. Third, on a societal level, there was a “medicalization of society,”104 an intensification of the social and political appropriation of medical science as a discourse and institutionally as a means of legitimizing a wide range of social activities. These activities included medically inspired plans for social reform, although specific models and plans were much contested among bureaucrats and social reformers; the concepts of public health and social hygiene

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were gaining publicity; and, finally, social Darwinism was beginning to put its stamp on German medical science.105 At the heart of these dramatic transformations, Berlin was centrestage, and more than 600 Japanese medical men were there to witness it, to participate in it, and to be deeply affected by it. For instance, it was in Berlin in 1871 when Nagayo Sensai, then a member of the Iwakura Mission and a future director of the Central Sanitary Bureau of Japan, first encountered the enigmatic concepts of sanitation and Gesundheit­ spflege. At first he did not really understand these words, yet after visiting various medical and administrative facilities in Berlin, he gradually came to understand that “these concepts meant the entire administrative system responsible for protecting the health of a nation.”106 Notably, it was from this experience in Berlin that Nagayo Sensai eventually coined the Japanese term eisei (sanitation/hygiene: its literal meaning is “policing life”) as a translation of the German concept of Gesundheitspflege.107 Once in Germany, Japanese medical students did not waste time in  absorbing cutting-edge knowledge from their teachers. Kitasato Shibasaburō, who in 1889–90, in collaboration with Robert Koch and Emil von Behring, first discovered the tetanus bacillus and the antitoxic serum of tetanus, confessed that he was so occupied with his research and learning that, in the first year of his sojourn in Berlin, he “saw nothing of the city but the street which ran between his boarding house and Berlin University.”108 It was not just medical science that this founding father of bacteriology in Japan was learning from his teacher. During his six-year stay in Berlin, Kitasato learned to emulate everything about his teacher, Robert Koch, from his attitudes towards colleagues to his sense of how science should relate to non-scientific authorities, to the point that he was called “Japan’s Koch” by his colleagues, a critical aspect that I will discuss in more depth in chapter 6 of this book on the long-term influence of German-Japanese medical entanglement. It was not just Kitasato who immersed himself in this wonderland of medical science. It was never a norm, but ardent passion for academic achievement led some Japanese students to practically live with their advisers. One such example is Ume Kinnojō, an ophthalmology student. After arriving in Berlin in November 1879, Ume decided to stay with his adviser Karl Ernst Schweigger instead of settling down in an ordinary boarding house to fully commit himself to studying.109 Some Japanese students came to express sorrow for German students who did not seem to fully utilize the favourable academic environment

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Japanese attendees of the Tenth International Medical Congress in Berlin in August 1890. Rudolf Virchow was the president of the Congress. Standing at the centre of the second row from the back is Gotō Shinpei. To the right of him is Kitasato Shibasaburō. Courtesy of the University of Tokyo Medical Library.

in Germany. “I am surprised to see,” wrote Matsumura Jinzō, a botany student, “how Germany could produce so many great scholars, even though German students here seem to be quite delinquent and lazy. In our homeland there are not so many lazy students.”110 Mori Rintarō also felt occasional pride at his own ability “to work so deftly, outdoing those Europeans, who always seem slightly clumsy and heavy-handed no matter what.”111 Interestingly, the critical assessment of German students was also shared by American students who were in Germany during the same period. For example, American doctor Rodney Glisan remarked in 1887 that “the majority of the students seem to have few aspirations above owning dogs, drinking beer, singing songs, and fighting duels.”112

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Examples of high achievers, however, should not lead one to believe that every single Japanese student was fully exploiting his educational opportunities in Germany. The linguistic differences the students faced were an educational barrier difficult to overcome, especially for the first generation of Japanese students who went to Berlin in the 1870s without any formal education in the German language at medical schools in Japan. Satō Susumu, who first lived with his compatriots Aoki Shūzō and Hagiwara Sankei in the same boarding house in Berlin, decided to move to a different boarding house where he could practise the German language without any interruption from his Japanese friends.113 Satō eventually achieved native-level fluency in German, but those students who were not persistent enough or who lacked German-language skills could not finish their studies as originally planned. In another example, the aforementioned Matsumura Jinzō took expensive (0.75 yen per hour) daily hour-long private German lessons for a year, yet he could not follow lectures, nor could he read German newspapers.114 He eventually dropped out of the school. There are additional examples of unsuccessful academic careers such as Hashimoto Haru. Hashimoto began his education in Germany in 1887 following in the footsteps of his father, Hashimoto Tsunatsune, who would later become surgeon general of the Imperial army in 1905 and whom readers have already encountered at the opening of this chapter. Under constant pressure from his father to excel academically, Haru tried to escape this burden by resorting to alcohol and sensual pleasures in Germany. Harshly rebuked by his father for these wrongdoings, Hashimoto Haru eventually had to give up his studies in Germany because of a mental illness.115 Furthermore, fate was not always on the side of the Japanese students, and examples of personal tragedies are abundant. Sagara Motosada, who studied for four years in Berlin from 1871, became mortally infected by a lancet he used for anatomical dissections, and tragically died in 1875 at the age of thirty-five. The case of Inoko Kichindo is even more agonizing. A promising toxicologist, Inoko arrived in Berlin in December 1892, soon became afflicted with typhoid fever and died at Berlin’s Augusta Hospital on 2 September 1893 at age twenty-eight. A friend of Mori Rintarō whose name is unknown also died from typhus, all alone at Berlin’s Charité hospital.116 In the cases of these students, their academic journeys to Germany proved to be fatal. However, for those Japanese students who were serious, diligent, and lucky, Germany was an incubator for academic advancement and maturity.

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What specific fields of medicine did Japanese students try to learn in Germany? My own statistical analysis of the student information in Berlin shows that over the span of forty years, Japanese medical men in Germany studied virtually all the subfields of modern medical science. Although most of the Japanese students at Berlin University, for instance, were interested in studying internal medicine (30.7%), surgery (16.1%), pediatrics (6.4%), pathology (6%), ophthalmology (5.5%), and gynecology (4.1%), some students were engaged in more specialized subfields such as bacteriology (3.2%), psychiatry (2.3%), dermatology (2.3%), immunology (1.8%), hygiene (1.4%), pharmacology (0.5%), and toxicology (0.5%). A diachronic analysis allows us to discern an important pattern of knowledge acquisition from this breakdown, which is closely interrelated to the generational differences of Japanese medical students. Earlier in this chapter, I mentioned that there were three periods of Japanese overseas studies: the expansion stage (1868–74); the consolidation stage (1875–81); and the steady stage (1882–). The intellectual pursuits of Japanese medical students also closely followed these periods, though the exact timing is markedly different from the general patterns of overseas studies. The first generation of Japanese medical men was those who came to Germany in the late 1860s and early 1870s without any systematic training in modern medical science, though most of them had previously been immersed in Dutch Learning. These students tended to be generalists, studying a little bit of everything. For instance, Ikeda Kensai studied pathological anatomy with Virchow, internal medicine with Friedrich Theodor Frerichs (1819–95), gynecology with Eduard Martin (1809–75), and pediatrics with Eduard Henoch (1820–1910) during his six-year sojourn in Berlin (1870–76).117 Of course, there were some systematic resources allocations from the Meiji government. Hagiwara Sankei, the first ryūgakusei studying medicine in Germany, decided to study pediatrics;118 Ōsawa Kenji, the first Japanese faculty member of Tokyo Medical School, studied physiology with Du Bois-Reymond;119 and Nagai Nagayoshi studied pharmacology.120 But pediatrics, physiology, and pharmacology were still basic branches of modern medical science, not specialized ones. In contrast to this first generation, the second generation of Japanese medical men was those who received thorough medical training at the hands of German doctors in Japan whom we learned about in chapter 2 of this book. Coming to Germany beginning in the second half of

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the 1870s, these students knew the basics of modern medical science and were fluent in German. And their choice of study was newly emerging fields such as bacteriology, biochemistry, and hygiene, as the examples of Ogata Masanori (bacteriology), Kitasato Shibasaburō (bacteriology), and Mori Rintarō (military hygiene) demonstrate. Compared with the academic mélange of Ikeda Kensa, who remained in one city sampling various subfields, Ogata Masanori came to Germany in 1880 with the clear intentions of studying hygiene. Instead of remaining in one city sampling various subfields, Ogata moved from Leipzig to Munich to Berlin to study hygiene, and eventually developed an interest in bacteriology.121 The final generation of Japanese doctors were the students of the first generation of Japanese overseas students in Germany. Again, as noted in the earlier chapter, the Meiji government was determined and prompt in “Japanizing” the faculty members at Tokyo Imperial University. The result was that those Japanese medical students who flocked to Germany from the 1890s onwards generally had learned basics of medicine from their Japanese teachers who had stayed in Germany a generation before. This third generation of Japanese students had even more specialized subfields. For instance, Kure Shūzō (1865–1932) came to Germany in 1897 to study psychiatry, eventually becoming a founding father of Kraepelian psychiatry in Japan. What should not be forgotten, however, is that this period also witnessed a dramatic increase of “lesser students” from Japan who invariably wanted to study basics such as internal medicine, surgery, and pediatrics. While several of the Japanese medical students who came to Germany managed to make their names known throughout the world, others simply could not bring their dreams to fruition due to their lack of preparation or ability. No matter how short or long the durations of their stays, their experiences in Berlin had one common factor: they were not solitary.122 Now it is time to take a look at the communal aspects of Japanese medical students studying in Germany, where we can see how the aforementioned generational patterns greatly affected individual lives. Artilleriestrasse 108 and Nihon Obasan (Tante Japan) On 10 June 1910, an obscure German lady in Berlin, Marie von Lagerström, joined a rare cohort of nonagenarians.123 The festivity of this event was enhanced by an unusual personal letter of congratu­ lations that the incumbent prime minister of Japan, Katsura Tarō

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(1848–1913), sent on behalf of ninety-five Japanese luminaries of politics, bureaucracy, and military, and academics such as Gotō Shinpei and Hirata Tōsuke (former privy councillor and home minister).124 “It is my … sincere duty to wish you luck from my heart on this joyful day,” wrote Prime Minister Katsura in fluent German. For me and my compatriots, your birthday … is a welcome occasion to express again the feelings of sincere admiration we reserve for you. For more than four decades, you accomplished, with rare devotion, the task of providing a home to the Japanese who were temporarily staying in Berlin in such a way that my compatriots often had forgotten that they were living far from their homeland. For joy and sorrow, you were together, for such a long time, with Japanese men and women whom you came to know. Your proven pieces of advice and your constant – I would say – motherly quality remain unforgotten to all of us who had the privilege of going in and out of your house.125

Accompanying this florid letter was a tangible token of appreciation. Barons Ishiguro, Hirata, Sato, and Tsuda; General Lieutenant H.  Todjo; Professors Hozumi, Osawa, Tanaka, Nakamura, Nagai, Yamawaki, Ariga, Miyake, and H. Fujiyama, among others, collected 1500 German marks to send as a gift to Frau Lagerström. In addition, Dr Tanakadate gave her a present of a lacquer chest, which carried a 400-mark price tag.126 As is clearly manifested in the letter to Frau Lagerström, the boarding house – or dovecote (Taubenhaus) as Japanese students called it – operated for more than a half-century at Artilleriestrasse 108127 and became one of the central locations of contact among the Japanese students in Berlin. On any given evening, her lodgings would play host primarily to medical students such as Nagai Nagayoshi, Aoki Shūzo, and Kitasato Shibasaburō, but also to students of other disciplines as well.128 The first resident at Frau Lagerström’s quarters was none other than Satō Susumu, the holder of the very first study abroad passport officially issued by the Meiji government and the first Japanese student to  obtain a doctorate from the medical faculty of Berlin University.129 Notably, the story behind how he ended up staying with Frau Lager­ ström vividly outlines the various obstacles the very first Japanese overseas student had to overcome. When Satō arrived in Berlin on 7  September 1869 after an excruciatingly long seventy-day trip from Yokohama via New York to Hamburg, he could only resort to the Dutch

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Marie von Lagerström with her Japanese lodgers. Standing right behind her is Tanaka Shōhei, a physicist, music theorist, and inventor of the pure-tone organ, who stayed with von Lagerström from 1884–99. Courtesy of Tanaka Tasuku.

embassy in Berlin for immediate help, as Dutch was the only foreign language in which he could make himself understood.130 At the Dutch embassy, Satō heard from the ambassador the rather surprising news that two other Japanese students had already been staying as guests at the house of an elementary school teacher. Extremely happy and relieved – “it was like meeting Buddha in Hell,” as he expressed it –131 Satō began to stay at the schoolteacher’s house with his two compatriots, Aoki Shūzo and Hagiwara Sankei. With their help, Satō purchased clothing and some daily necessities for immediate use. However it did

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not take long for Satō to realize that diversions like drinking beer every evening and chatting in Japanese with his newly acquainted friends were detrimental to his German-language acquisition. Satō then bravely decided to fly out of the cosy nest – actually all three of them decided to live alone – and after wandering from place to place, he finally settled at Frau Lagerström’s in 1870.132 In the 1870s, the boarding house of Frau Lagerström was one of many, for the Japanese students of this period sought to reside as remotely from each other as possible. As Satō’s case evinces, living alone or with just one other Japanese housemate was the norm, rather than an exception, among the first generation of Japanese overseas students in Berlin, a situation mainly due to their commitment to German-language study. The family magazine Die Gartenlaube also substantiated this trend among the Japanese students: “Without exception,” it wrote in 1872, “they live in boarding houses run by well-educated families, in most cases living two by two; sometimes alone; in rare cases, more than two in one family.”133 Thus, it was typical of the circumstances in Berlin, when Nagai Nagayoshi arrived there in May 1871, that he decided to stay at Frau von Holzendorf’s boarding house at Taubenstrasse 15, where no other Japanese student was living.134 The strong determination among members of the first generation of Japanese medical students to improve their command of the German language, which more often than not led to the severance of ties with their compatriots, slowly disappeared among the subsequent cohorts of Japanese students, who predominantly chose to live together. It should not be concluded that Japanese students who came to Germany from the 1880s onwards were less motivated than the first generation of students, although as explained earlier in this chapter, there was a clear and gradual deterioration in the quality of students following the deregulation of the study abroad program by the Meiji government. In­ stead, the main reasons for this trend towards increasing sociability lie elsewhere, and closely reflect broader changes in the characteristics and purposes of the Japanese students studying abroad in Germany. One clear factor that led to an increase in students’ collegiality was the level of previous language acquisition in students arriving in Germany. While the first generation of Japanese students in the early 1870s had to learn German from scratch upon their arrival in Berlin, later generations of Japanese students – especially medical students – had already studied the German language extensively in Japan before they departed for Germany. For instance, unlike the previous example of Satō

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Susumo, who could only speak broken Dutch and was terrified the night he arrived in Berlin, Koganei Yoshikiyo, who arrived in Berlin on 30 December 1880, felt extremely relieved, for he now could make himself perfectly understood in the German language.135 Like Koganei, most Japanese medical students from the 1880s on did not have to ­forsake the convenience and comfort of living with fellow students in  favour of a situation where they would be forced to practise their German.136 In addition, the popular trend towards shorter stays in Germany, for the sake of further practical training rather than securing another degree from a German institution, made the logistical and practical help one could get from fellow Japanese compatriots in Germany and Japan even more appealing. And here, a previous connection back in Japan made a big difference. During their college years, most Japanese doctors were required to live in school dormitories. The extended training period that lasted from five to seven years structurally and spatially forced these students to get to know not only their cohorts but also their senpai (senior alumni) and kōhai (junior alumni). Just like college students living in fraternity houses nowadays, these Japanese students often gathered at beer pubs and steakhouses whenever they received their monthly allowances.137 At the medical faculty of Tokyo University, there was even a student club for socialization, named Dōmei-kai, where Kitasato Shibasaburo became the first president and planned regular social gatherings and speech meetings.138 Through these personal channels, therefore, Japanese students could arrange their lodgings in Berlin even before they left Japan, and friends and colleagues would come to the Berlin train station to greet the newcomers. Again, Mori Rintarō is a good example. For Mori, not a single day passed without his meeting fellow Japanese expatriates in Berlin, and his diary is full of endless lists of appointments for lunches, dinners, birthday parties, and departure parties involving fellow students. For instance, on the day of his relocation from Munich to Berlin, 16 April 1887, Mori met with Yukura Tōkō, a veterinary student. The next day, he visited Taniguchi Ken and Nagura Kōsaku, both surgeons. Two days later, he met with General Nogi Maresuke, who was briefly visiting Berlin. Indeed, it would be impossible for Mori to meet his acquaintances from Japan all at once, for there were simply too many Japanese scholars in Berlin. It was within this context of increasing sociability and a changing pattern of medical studies that the boarding house of Frau Lagerström

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became the central locus of social interactions among Japanese students and visitors in Berlin. Students followed in the footsteps of their senpai or acquaintances and decided to stay at Frau Lagerström’s because of its convenience and atmosphere of collegiality. There, Japanese students could indulge themselves with the comforts of genuine Japanese cuisine, such as koi no kokushō (soup made out of carp with tofu and miso), unagi no kabayaki (skewered grilled eel), suzuki no sashimi (sea bass sashimi), and gyūnabe (beef pot).139 Although they were living in Germany, the lifestyle of these students could not be more Japanese. Social Conduits: The Yamatokwai, the German-Japanese Society, and the Nippon Club It was not just the sort of boarding house that Frau Lagerström ran where Japanese students and visitors in Berlin fraternized and formed their sense of common identity. There existed more formal channels of social interaction in Berlin, and they were two distinctive yet closely related organizations which appeared around the same time. One organization, called the Yamatokwai, functioned as an umbrella organization of the Japanese residents in Berlin beginning in the mid-1880s. Another group, the Wa-doku-kai (Deutsch-Japanische Gesellschaft), was founded in 1888 and flourished as a pivotal social club where Berliners interested in Japanese culture and language could develop friendships with the Japanese students and visitors living in Berlin. As the boarding houses in Berlin followed the changing charac­ teristics of the study abroad program in Berlin, the formation of the Yamatokwai also closely coincided with the demographic changes in the Japanese students going to Germany from the mid-1880s onwards. When Japanese students first started to come to Germany in the early 1870s, Aoki Shūzō’s Berlin house functioned as an informal gathering place in the city, because Aoki, as the ambassador of Japan from 1874, was the first point of contact among Japanese students and visitors arriving in Berlin.140 Considering their relatively small number, the early Japanese students did not feel compelled to organize a more formal social organization. The scenes of Japanese social life in Berlin changed dramatically, however, with the explosion of the number of Japanese students and visitors from the mid- and late 1880s. The rather short-lived Yamatokwai began as a loosely organized social gathering141 which met regularly on the last Sunday of each month at one of the cafés on Unter den Linden. The Café Krebs in Neue

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Wilhelmsstrasse was a particularly popular gathering place for the Japanese, a place they called Kaniya – meaning “crab store” in Japanese.”142 Although this organization had the purported aim of ­promoting the scholarly activities of Japanese students in Berlin and even had an inspector from the Japanese embassy in Berlin, Fukushima Yasumasa (1852–1919), to monitor the academic progress of Japanese students in Berlin, in reality, the purpose of this social group was “drinking beer and reading newspapers, just to kill time.”143 Furious about this waste of the precious academic and financial resources of the Meiji government, Mori Rintarō appealed to the members of the Yamatokwai when he was invited to give a talk on 2 January 1888.144 In his lecture given in German, Mori strongly exhorted the members of the society to direct their attention from social dissipation to intellectual endeavour for the sake of their nation. “It is … said,” asserted Mori, “the Yamatokwai is a Konshinkwai, i.e. one of those informal meetings, which in Japan, people of the same occupation or the same native place are accustomed to organize using a newspaper advertisement for the sake of simple mutual friendship.” He continued in fluent German: That the members of this association meet for an informal night out, a meal, or a drink session, simply for a Konshinkwai is their decision, but this meeting is not the purpose of the association, still less does it constitute an association … The association pursues a rather high and noble purpose … It is to maintain and elevate the Japanese nationality, that consciousness deeply rooted in our people, which a well-known Japanese poet and patriot has compared to the shining cherry blossom on a fresh morning.145

Probably annoyed by this patriotic yet pretentious speech delivered in German by a fellow Japanese army physician – or perhaps because they could not fully understand his German polemic –146 the members of the Yamatokwai unanimously rejected Mori’s proposal to institute statutes meant to circumscribe the activities of the association, thus keeping its status primarily as a venue of social interaction.147 Although Mori Rintarō was extremely dissatisfied with what he understood to be an unforgivable waste of precious opportunities and intellectual resources, the Yamatokwai was a well-run organization in its own right. Through this organization, Japanese medical students expanded the sphere of their sociability beyond the confined space of

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fellow medical students to wider social circles that included Japanese in bureaucratic and military institutions. By drinking together, reading together, and dining together, Japanese in Berlin developed a strong sense of community with other Japanese from various classes and occupations. While the question of what political orientation this community would eventually take, and what the practical implications might be, remained an open question at this time, it was clear that the Japanese medical students in Berlin were developing strong ties to high officials in the military, the bureaucracy, and the government. Indeed, these students were in the process of becoming “socialized intellects.” Along with the Yamatokwai, the Japanese residing in Berlin in the late 1880s had another conduit of social collegiality, although this group differed in that it was a social gathering with Germans interested in Japan. In October of 1887, the Seminar for Oriental Languages (das Seminar für Orientalische Sprachen) was established at Berlin University with the aim of providing experts in foreign languages to serve German colonial expansion and administration.148 The first Japanese teacher of this seminar, Dr Inoue Tetsujirō, who had studied philosophy in Berlin, thought that it would be beneficial for his German students to have more opportunities to practise their newly acquired Japanese language skills. Therefore, in December of 1888, he invited a couple of Japanese students to the restaurant Leipziger Garten for the purposes of conversation practice with his German students. Friendships among the invited Germans and Japanese quickly developed, and they proposed making the event a regular one with the goal of fostering mutual understanding between the two cultural groups. They decided to establish an association, Wa-doku-kai, and to meet officially twice a month on Saturdays and unofficially as circumstances dictated. The group began with thirty members – half German, half Japanese – but membership grew rapidly, and within the span of three months (February 1889), the association counted twenty-five Germans and fifty Japanese as official members.149 Compared with the Yamatokwai, the Wa-doku-kai had the perspective of a learned society. As is stipulated in its statutes,150 the organi­ zation tried to pursue two agendas – social (gesellig) and academic (wissenschaftlich) – all at once. For example, at a biweekly meeting held at the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten in Prinz Albrechtstrasse 9,151 a speaker chosen from among the members delivered a lecture on the subject of contemporary and historical Japan. The actual topics of these lectures ranged from Japanese statistics to political parties in the Japanese

An early summer outing of Wa-doku-kai in Schlachtensee, 28 June 1901. Ost-Asien, no. 41 (1901): 199.

The gathering of the Nippon Club in honour of the visit of Itō Hirobumi (second row from the front, sitting between two women), 6 December 1901. Ost-Asien, no. 46 (1902): 441.

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parliament, to the Japanese army and Japanese foreign policy.152 These lectures were invariably followed by a beer night where the Japanese and German attendees would further discuss the issues of the lecture. For example, on 3 September 1898, the German members of Wa-dokukai had the pleasure of drinking the Japanese beer Yebisu for the first time.153 Of those frequent gatherings, the biggest social event for Wa-dokukai was the annual Christmas party, which was reported by virtually all Berlin newspapers as a spectacular event. All the Germans who used to live in Japan or had any connection with Japan were invited, along with all the Japanese living in Berlin. In case of the party of 1897, as many as eighty women and two hundred men attended.154 The total number slightly decreased in 1898: only one hundred women and one hundred and fifty men attended the party, as social luminaries such as Rudolf Virchow could not make it. However, it was still a pleasant night, as Frau Lagerström was there exchanging gifts with Japanese students. The party teemed with people dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and even geisha attire, and lasted until six o’clock the next morning.155 As the atmosphere of conviviality filled the minds of the Japanese in Berlin, there was a renewed attempt to reconstruct the now-defunct Yamatokwai. On 15 October 1896, a dozen Japanese in Berlin gathered at the Wiener Küche in Dorotheenstrasse in order to create the Nippon Club. Structured in a similar fashion to the Wa-doku-kai, the newly established Nippon Club also tried to combine academic functions with social functions. Though the participation rate of the resident Japa­nese students and visitors was quite admirable – in 1898, thirtyeight attendees were reported out of fifty-six members156 – the society itself was not as active as the Wa-doku-kai. Whereas the Wa-doku-kai held biweekly meetings, the Nippon Club’s meetings were sporadic, and by April 1901, it had held only twenty-seven meetings.157 The frequency of the group’s gatherings decreased even further, so much so that in 1902, Iwaya Sazanami reported that “although it had the largest number of members in Berlin, it had only a couple of meetings per year, and even those are attended mainly by the people from the Japanese embassy in Berlin.”158 The slow “death” of the Wa-doku-kai should not, however, be interpreted as evidence that Japanese students in Berlin stopped meeting or found social interaction obsolete. The draw of the social function of the organization was now simply transferred to different venues. From the turn of the twentieth century, first of all, an increasingly large num­ ber  of sub-organizations based upon respective disciplines of studies

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emerged in Berlin. For students of law, there appeared the Hōsei-kai, while for students of sciences, an association named Rikōkai was established. Similarly, Japanese medical students in Berlin founded the Mokuyōkai, where they met each Thursday to discuss and study medical science. In other words, the Japanese students studying in Berlin were constantly communicating with each other, creating communities and sub-communities of their own. Conclusion Between 1868 and 1914, more than a thousand Japanese medical students actively engaged themselves in studying medical science in Berlin and other German cities. In accordance with the specialization and professionalization of medical science in Japan, the subfields Japanese medical students were studying in Germany evolved from the mid-1880s onwards, moving from general fields such as anatomy and i­ nternal medicine to highly specialized fields such as bacteriology and hygiene. As much as their fields of inquiry were different, the lives of those Japanese students included a wide range of variations. Conditioned by important aspects of social interactions, such as economic situations, levels of previous education, and personal motivations, some stayed in Berlin for an extended amount of time to pursue highly specialized and original research; others stayed in Berlin for only a couple of weeks in order to pad their curriculum vitae and take advantage of the reputation the flavour of Germany gave them. No matter how variegated their lives in Germany might have been, the Japanese scholars who gathered in big cities like Berlin were not isolated individuals. They were in a foreign land socializing with their own countrymen, and building a strong sense of community. Notably, they were also socializing with local Berliners, thus building a bridge between Germany and Japan. These Japanese medical men were the epitome of “socialized intellectuals.” The experiences of the Japanese “socialized intellectuals” in Germany were as cultural as they were academic, and the doctors were keen observers and consumers. But just as their academic journey was riddled with various difficulties, their cultural engagement was not entirely palatable. The next chapter will chronicle cultural encounters of Japanese medical men in Imperial Germany that transformed them into critical receptors of modern medical science.

Chapter 4

Bedazzled and Bewildered: Cultural Journeys of Japanese Students in Germany

In his 1890 autobiographical novel The Dancing Girl [Maihime], Mori Ōgai (Mori Rintarō) recounted the first impression he had of Berlin, a sprawling metropolis: “Suddenly here I was, standing in the middle of this most modern of European capitals. My eyes were dazzled by its brilliance, my mind was dazed by the riot of color.” The initial impact this new city had on young Mori is further revealed in his novel through the voice of his protagonist, Ōta Toyotaro: To translate Unter den Linden as “under the Bodhi tree” would suggest a quiet secluded spot. But just come and see the groups of men and women sauntering along the pavements that line each side of that great thoroughfare as it runs, straight as a die, through the city. It was still in the days when Wilhelm I would come to his window and gaze down upon his capital. The tall, broad-shouldered officers in their colourful dress uniform, and the attractive girls, their hair made up in the Parisian style, were everywhere a delight to the eye … Just visible in the clear sky between the towering buildings were fountains … Looking into the distance, one could see the statue of the goddess on the victory column. She seemed to be floating halfway to heaven from the midst of the green trees on the other side of the Brandenburg gate. All these myriad sights were gathered so close at hand that it was quite bewildering for the newcomer.1

Dazzled by its colourful brilliance yet simultaneously bewildered by the sudden realization that he was indeed at the spectacular centre of European modernity, Mori Ōgai aptly expressed the peculiar combination of bedazzlement and bewilderment which befuddled many ordinary visitors to Berlin from the Far East. Indeed, things that might have

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Mori Rintarō, 1899. Courtesy of National Diet Library of Japan.

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been quotidian to the German people – such as officers in uniform or women in Parisian-style dress – were worth mentioning in the eyes of Japanese observers.2 It did not, however, take long for these Japanese students to learn that they themselves were objects of an intense gaze of Germans that rendered them “exotic” items, if not the target of local mockery. An 1872 article from Die Gartenlaube, the most popular illustrated family magazine in Germany during the mid- and late nineteenth century, is a poignant example. In this article, titled “Japan in Berlin,” Die Gartenlaube introduces the social and intellectual lives of the more than one hundred Japanese students who were staying in Berlin. Describing the everyday lives of the Japanese students in the newly unified German empire, Die Gartenlaube did not fail to mention the highly admirable characteristics of these Japanese students such as politeness, dutifulness, and friendliness, but the whole point of the article was to emphasize and deride the physical characteristics of the Japanese. “These Japanese gentlemen are extremely small and in very frail shape,” the article reported. “From their almond-shaped slant Mongolian eyes and from their yellow complexion,” the Japanese are “immediately distinguishable.” Moreover, “their prominent lower jaws, wide mouths and inch-long teeth” were sure to become “the target of jokes among the Berliner.”3 These two excerpts show us that in Germany, Japanese students and Germans were constantly engaged in a mutual exchange of cultural preconceptions and prejudices. For most Japanese students in Germany, their sojourns were full of excitement and expectation, often involving experiences of sensual pleasure, but the flip side of the same coin was the unending frustration coming from the difference in their skin colour and language. How did they cope with things unfamiliar? The discussion will now assess the cultural journeys of Japanese physicians in Germany. Between Excitement and Frustration German cities were full of spectacles,4 arousing excitement among the Japanese. For example, just as Mori Ōgai was deeply impressed by orderly sidewalks and the Brandenburg Gate, his fellow Japanese students were amazed by the unending forest of “high-rise” residential buildings in Berlin. Coming from the predominantly wooden capital of Tokyo, where building with bricks was an important symbol of modern life,5 these German cities full of brick buildings were certainly worth

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mentioning to their parents and friends back home in Japan. To illustrate, in an 18 April 1871 letter to his father, Nagai Nagayoshi described the buildings he saw in Berlin extensively, exclaiming, “Everything that is built by human beings is finely detailed.”6 It was not just students staying in Berlin who were amazed by the masterly architectural technology of Germans. Matsumura Jinzō also carefully recorded the shape and function of brick buildings in his city of residence, Würzburg, surmising that this architectural style must be conducive to a higher level of urbanization in Germany.7 What was even more intriguing to Japanese students than the impressive architecture was the number of superb cultural venues German cities offered. German cities were much more than a depository of medical knowledge; Berlin especially was an emerging metropolis where Japanese students could indulge themselves in European culture at its finest. Though his case was the exception rather than the rule, Mori Rintarō was an avid play-goer who attended Goethe’s Faust (5 February 1886) and Calderon’s La dama duende (14 March 1886) in the Residenz­ theater in Dresden, in addition to a quick trip to Berlin to attend Alexander Dumas’s Denise at the Residenztheater. It was not just an aesthetically pleasing experience that the global metropolises of Germany provided Japanese students. German cities such as Berlin and Munich also had an aura of exoticism to passionate and sensitive young Japanese males, and this was often expressed in the students’ patronage of places to explore sensual tension and release. For example, the Café Krebs, the most popular establishment among the Japanese in Berlin as well as the principal meeting location of the Japanese expatriate organization, Yamatokwai, unabashedly happened to be one of the most well-known centres of prostitution in Berlin.8 Furthermore, contained in Mori Ōgai’s autobiography, Vita Sexualis, are many implicit and explicit insinuations suggesting that Japanese medical students in Germany were studying female anatomy in their bedrooms rather than at a dissecting table. Take the story of Mr Kanai, a novelized version of Mori Ōgai, boasting of an episode of sexual exuberance to his fellow Japanese students: He remembered a coffeehouse in Munich. A place the Japanese always came to in groups. Among its regular customers was an uncommonly beautiful girl accompanied by a handsome native of the region who looked somewhat roguish. All the Japanese extolled this girl. One evening while this couple was present, Mr. Kanai went into the men’s room. He

92  Doctors of Empire heard someone behind him hurrying into the room. In almost no time at all two thin arms were clasped tightly around his neck. He felt his lips pressed by the hot kiss of a woman. He found a visiting card being squeezed into his hand. When he saw the woman turn back like a whirlwind and take her departure, he found it was that glamorous girl. Written in pencil on the visiting card bearing her address were the words, “Eleventhirty.” He felt as if he wanted to spite his fellow countrymen who claimed he was a coward for not having had anything to do with his own vulgar desires. So he decided to launch out adventurously into this rendezvous. He found she had a scar on her abdomen from the time she had once been pregnant. Afterwards he learned she had gone into this escapade with him to recover a pawned dress she needed for a dance. His countrymen were absolutely stunned.9

Unfettered by the social and moral constraints of Meiji Japan, these stories reveal the extent to which Japanese students in Germany expressed their desires physically and mentally. The sense of liberation, however, went hand in hand with a stark awareness that they were the target of the scrutinizing eyes of German people, who were similarly full of expectations of the exotic “other.” From narratives of Japanese students it is clear that the curiosity of Germans accompanied the ­students from the moment they set their feet on German soil. Nagai Nagayoshi, who arrived in Berlin in 1871 after a twelve-hour-long train ride from Frankfurt, had to endure the staring eyes of a young German officer, who evidently was seeing an Asian for the first time, for the entire train ride.10 Frustrating to most Japanese students, this awkward situation of being gazed upon did not change much, even after a decade. Matsumara Jinzō, who stayed in Würzburg between 1886 and 1887, testified that he was under the impression that he was constantly “being watched” by the Germans.11 “The only thing that strongly irritates me,” wrote Matsumura to his father on 6 April 1886, “is that the ladies of Würzburg are always staring at me, whenever I go out to walk.”12 These feelings of being under watch eventually changed his perception of Germany and the German people, as Matsumura wrote to his father on 15 June 1886: “From Japan I imagined Europe ­as  a paradise. Now I am in Europe and everybody around me are Europeans, but the children make fun of me by calling me ‘Chinese’ from behind and look at me as if I came from the zoo. Therefore, I do not take a walk any more … I cannot stay here long.”13

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Traumatized by the relentless observation of Germans to the point that he felt paranoid, Matsumura was also upset by the Germans’ lack of geographical knowledge. Clearly agitated, he wrote to his brother on 29 September 1886 that the “uneducated citizens of Würzburg do not know where Japan is located on the map, and they could not distinguish Japan from China.”14 It was not just uneducated Würzburger residents who scrutinized the students with yellow faces; in Berlin, one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world in the late nineteenth century, Mori Rintarō always had to be mindful of the penetrating gazes of Berliners. “I would go to the coffee shop on Königsstrasse,” recounts Mori through the voice of his protagonist, Ōta Toyotaro, “I wonder what they [Germans] made of the strange Japanese who sat among them writing busily on the cold stone table, quite oblivious that the cup of coffee the waitress had brought was getting cold.”15 There were exceptional instances where a Japanese student, keenly aware of his exotic status in Germany, took full advantage of German gazes. Satō Susumu, who came to Germany in 1869 without any prior training in German language, went out to a local beer hall every evening after dinner to practise his German. After ordering a glass of beer, he patiently waited for a German to come by out of curiosity and talk to him.16 But in most cases, the feeling of being observed and being ridiculed was irritating, if not deadening, to the point that it prompted a violent reaction from Japanese students. One day, Gotō Shinpei and Okada Kunitarō, a bacteriologist, who studied in Germany from 1890 to 1893, were about to sit on a bench in a park near Elsässer Straße in Berlin when a German sitting right next to them started to speak. “You must be Japanese. As to Japan, it is a small country, and in fact it is a protectorate of China.” Upon hearing this remark belittling Japan, without saying a word, Gotō suddenly picked up a walking stick that he held and hit the shoulder joint of the German. “Run, Okada, run. Don’t be bothered by a jerk like this.”17 For those who were not brave enough to protest physically, the omniscient gaze of Germans led them more often than not to succumb to the indoctrination that the Japanese people were inferior to Europe­ ans. “I suffer from an inferiority complex towards Europe,” wrote Matsumura to his father on 5 October 1886. “Japan is limping in many respects way behind Europe. If we want to catch up with the Europeans,

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we must absolutely change our lifestyle completely, starting with clothing, nutrition, and housing.”18 For Matsumura, who was failing academically, criticizing the Japanese people and Japanese culture as a whole might have assuaged his scarred self-image; after all, according to his own estimation, he was academically underachieving because he was Japanese. “Japanese people imitate the ‘European way of life,’ but it is only superficial,” asserted Matsumura. “We will never reach (in the fast lane) the height of European culture and civilization.”19 The self-belittlement of Japanese culture and people was not an alcove inhabited solely by less qualified Japanese students in Germany. The Japanese minister to the German empire, Aoki Shūzo, who had studied medical science and political science in Berlin, was similarly sceptical about Japanese culture and people. When Mori Rintarō mentioned that he was assigned to study hygiene in Germany, Aoki reportedly told Mori that while it was good to study hygiene, he was afraid that Mori would find it extremely difficult to put what he had learned in Germany into immediate practice in Japan. Disparagingly, Aoki reminded Mori that “discussions about hygiene are meaningless to people who go about with geta thongs between their toes and pick their noses.”20 Extremely condescending towards their own culture, the only difference between Matsumura and Aoki was whether or not they considered themselves part of that category of lowly Japanese people and culture. Interestingly, Matsumura felt he was one of those Japanese who needed a complete cultural revolution; in contrast, Aoki regarded himself as an already enlightened member of European culture and civilization. Not all Japanese students in Germany, however, were content with condemnation of their “own” culture and people, as we saw in the case of the violent rebuttal of Gotō Shinpei. When it came to the self-reflective question of what it meant to be a Japanese person living in late-nineteenth-century Germany, many Japanese students had different answers. Mori Rintarō’s answer was the most adamant one. Rallying against Orientalism On 6 March 1886, Mori Rintarō was invited to attend the annual celebratory meeting of the Geographical Society in Dresden (Verein für Erdkunde). Befriended by Surgeon Major General Wilhelm August Roth (1833–92), commander of the medical corps of the Saxon army and

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professor of public health at Dresden Technical University, Mori accompanied him to several social, military, and academic occasions in Dresden including the Geographical Society meeting. However, that particular evening at the society was different from the other social and academic gatherings Mori had attended in order to better understand German culture and science. Indeed, this evening was extraordinary because the main topic of the night was none other than the Japanese people and culture, and because the featured speaker was the German geologist Edmund Naumann (1850–1926), a self-designated “expert” on Japan who had been hired by the Japanese government (1875–85). Given Naumann’s qualifications, it is not hard to imagine that Mori had high expectations of the lecture; however, the evening turned out to be a nightmare, and it constituted the beginning of a prolonged intellectual confrontation between Mori Rintarō and Naumann, to be later known as the “Naumann controversy” among Japanese historians.21 As we shall see in the following pages, the “Naumann controversy” clearly tells us that there was a conscious effort by some Japanese in Germany to rectify the misconceptions and intentional misrepresentation propagated by many Germans. To put it differently, the Japanese were not merely objects waiting to be measured and presented by the Germans; rather, the Japanese themselves, now armed with advanced training in German language and medicine, fought fiercely over who had the ultimate authority to speak about Japan and the Japanese people. In front of more than three hundred German men and women gathered on the night of 6 March 1886, Edmund Naumann, a former professor of geology, mineralogy, and mining at Tokyo Kaisei Gakkō (later Tokyo Imperial University), director of the Department of the Geological Survey of Japan, and recipient of the prominent Japanese Order of the Rising Sun,22 delivered a lecture, titled “Japan,” that surveyed bits and pieces of the land and culture, ranging from the country’s geographical location to particular habits and customs, to the politics and arts of Japan. Since the actual transcript of the lecture is not extant, the precise contents of the lecture remain unknown, but some details were recorded by none other than audience member Mori Rintarō. According to Mori’s detailed diary entry, Naumann is said to have made the following points in the course of his lecture: first, that Japan was in the process of modernization, but that Europeans were far superior to the Japanese in their level of civilization. Furthermore, Naumann claimed that the Japanese did not create the atmosphere of progress by themselves – it was forced upon them from outside. To prove this last

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point succinctly and illustratively, Naumann concluded his lecture with a story, which was supposed to be “cheerful,” yet was in fact full of burlesque. The following is a synopsis of the narrative Naumann offered:23 One day, the Japanese bought a steamboat. They learned the steering technique rather rapidly and took the steamboat right out to sea. After a few months, when they approached their domestic sea coast again, the Japanese found themselves in a precarious and unfortunate situation – the captain could start the steamboat, but did not know how to stop the boat. The captain cruised the boat back and forth along the coastline, and waited until the engine ran out of fuel. You can see this happening quite a lot along the coasts of Japan.

Listening to this mockery and not-so-subtle critique of the painstaking Japanese efforts to modernize,24 Mori Rintarō became obviously agitated, yet because it was a festive evening, he sought to quell his frustration and anger. However, over the course of dinner, a remark by Naumann regarding Buddhism proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Sitting directly across from Mori Rintarō, Naumann remarked, “I spent a long time in Asia, but have never been attracted to Buddhism, as it claims women have no souls! … That’s why I have stayed away from Buddhism.” Upon hearing this, Mori Rintarō became so startled and frustrated that he requested permission to speak. “I cannot help but to disturb you with my deplorable German and to ask your attention, especially from ladies in this room,” began Mori Rintarō, speaking in German. “As a Japanese of Buddhist faith, I would like to emphasize that … in Buddhist teaching, there exist numerous examples of women becoming buddha [enlightened] themselves. How can they become enlightened, if they have no souls … In terms of respect for women, Buddhism is no less than Christianity.” With this rebuttal to Naumann’s assertions, Mori Rintarō was defending his Buddhist faith from false accusations; however, in a broader sense, he was attempting to salvage the image of Japan among the audience of “uneducated” German men and women.25 This small rebuttal from Mori Rintarō, no matter how trivial it might have been, deeply troubled Naumann’s self-perception as an out­spoken and authoritative voice. Publicly shamed by a twenty-four-year-old Japanese soldier, Naumann subsequently tried to defend his authority by delivering a two-hour lecture on “Japan and the Japanese people”

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(Japan und die Japanesen) at the Anthropological Society of Munich (Anthropologische Gesellschaft) on 25 June 1886.26 Furthermore, Naumann published a printed version of a lecture titled “Land and People of the Japanese Archipelago” (Land und Volk der japanischen Inselkette) in the renowned Allgemeine Zeitung of Munich on 26 and 29 June 1886.27 In these subsequent efforts, Naumann attempted to make three interrelated assertions. By strategically dividing his article into two different sections – one on Japanese geography and landscape, and the other on Japanese people and culture – Naumann, first and foremost, sought to highlight the stark contrast he was drawing between the pristine beauty of Japanese nature and landscape and the undeserving Japanese people spoiling this paradise.28 Characterized by their savage practices of concubinage, nudity, and the inhumane treatment of the Ainu tribe, the Japanese people, so Naumann asserted, were essentially destroying the natural beauty of the Japanese archipelago, exemplified by such landmarks as Mount Fuji and Kawaguchi. After establishing this unbridgeable dichotomy between nature and culture, Naumann moved on to emphasize that the thrusts towards the contemporary modernization of Japan originated from outside, thus denying the possibility of internal modernizing forces within Japan. He continued: One generally assumes that the Japanese drew near to us, the superior ones, fully aware of their own incomplete development. One generally considers this approach an indication of the positive traits and intelligence of the Japanese people. But such a view is not accurate. The country was not opened from within but rather forced open from without … The principle of uncritical imitation is even more in evidence today.29

In the context of depriving the Japanese of agency in their national modernization process, Naumann then attempted to cage the Japanese people permanently in low levels of education, intelligence, and morality. “Our entire [German] self and thought points toward the future and does not at all embed strong and deep roots in the past,” wrote Naumann. In contrast, the Japanese, who historically had been under the influence of Chinese civilization, were essentially a backward-­ looking people. Therefore, Naumann concluded, “if the achievements of western civilization come into Japan, it is neither inevitable nor possible for Japan to inherit western culture.”30 In short, Naumann’s idea was a classic example of essentialized conceptions of Japanese people and culture shared among Germans of the late nineteenth century, an

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orientalist indictment that we can observe even among German doctors in Japan. Upon reading Naumann’s disparaging newspaper article, Mori Rintarō decided to respond to these myopic ideas with a point-by-point rebuttal. On 14 September 1886, he finished writing the first draft of his response and gave it to his adviser in Munich, Max Pettenkofer, for his support and editorial help. With a letter of recommendation secured from Pettenkofer, Mori Rintarō hurried to the publisher of the Allgemeine Zeitung, located at Schwanthalerstrasse 71. There, Mori met the editor, Otto Braun. After a brief conversation with Braun, he was confirmed in his view that he should publish the rebuttal article. After asking Mori Rintarō whether he wrote the article by himself, Braun rather bluntly stated, “Naumann’s article is by and large in accordance with my own perspective. Is there actually any factual error in that article?”31 “Numerous,” replied Mori. On his way out of the publisher’s, it suddenly became clear to Mori how a “Japan-friendly” intellectual such as Roth had approved of Naumann’s lecture at the Geological Society, and why Roth could not understand the reason for Mori’s distress – these scholars simply did not know the “truth” about Japan. Mori Rintarō’s rebuttal article, titled “The Truth about Japan,” appeared on 29 December 1886.32 In this emotionally charged yet meticulously referenced piece, Mori strove to achieve three main objectives. By going through each of Naumann’s claims about the Japanese – from the Ainus to diet and costume to religion and myth – Mori systematically discredited Naumann’s factual claims. For instance, disputing Naumann’s statement that the Japanese were actively engaged in the custom of concubinage, Mori cited the old decree of the Frankish Council of Nuremberg (February 1650), which clearly stated that “it shall therefore be permitted to every man to marry two wives.” The objective of this exercise was to point out the absurdity of Naumann’s claims by revealing that in fact his assertions were based on his cursory “anthropological” reading of contemporary Japanese society. Furthermore, Mori’s counter-argument, which sought to uncover the many factual fallacies espoused by Naumann, led to his larger plans to undermine Naumann’s perceived authority. Just as his German teachers at Tokyo Medical School had persistently claimed that without the proper linguistic capabilities, the Japanese would never fully learn the essence of German science, Mori used their arguments to bestow upon the Japanese language a similar importance. In his opinion, the opinions of German scholars such as Naumann regarding Japanese people

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and culture were inherently flawed because they were ignorant of the Japanese language. According to Mori, no matter how many years he had stayed in Japan, Naumann’s ideas were essentially a perpetuation of the age-old prejudices of Europeans. Importantly, Mori revealed that Naumann relied exclusively on European sources and his own eyewitness accounts, the accuracy of which had been already compromised by his preconceptions towards Japan. In contrast to the essentializing scholarship of Naumann, Mori portrayed himself as an intellectual with authority by demonstrating to the reader that he was well versed in German and European texts as well as Japanese texts. Therefore, one tactic Mori employed to reveal his superior scholarship was extensive use of footnotes to support his claims; notably, he relied heavily on quotes from accounts of Japan by German scholars such as Professor Rein and Karl Rosenkranz, as well as Fichte’s view that Japan was “the ideal of the closed commercial state” (Der geschlossene Handelsstaat.) After establishing his academic authority vis-à-vis Naumann, Mori sought to defend the experience of Japanese modernization against that of the “superior” European model by dissecting European culture into two contradictory camps of ideas. Against Naumann’s claim that “the undiluted adoption of European culture will weaken rather than strengthen the Japanese, and bring about the downfall of the people,” Mori retorted: What would this so-called European culture be, whose adoption brings with it the danger of bringing a people to ruin? Does not true European culture lie in the recognition of freedom and beauty in the purest sense of these words? Is this recognition capable of bringing about ruin? No; Naumann cannot have meant that. But perhaps he meant by European culture some of the weapons that have often been employed, quite successfully, against other nations, such as liquor, opium, and certain horrible infectious diseases? Granted, these could bring Japan to ruin, if they were to find entrance. Thankfully, the good sense of our people has thus far protected us from at least this eventuality.33

By resorting to the European ideals of freedom and enlightenment, whose validity Naumann could not possibly deny, as they were used as a discursive weapon legitimizing European penetration into non-­ European countries, Mori subtly yet damningly criticized the destructive aspects of European culture – if the Japanese were going to ruin themselves by treading the path paved by Europeans, then the failure

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would not be due to the fact that the Japanese lacked intelligence or creativity; rather, it would be because European culture had an inherently destructive element within itself. Essentially, in Mori’s opinion, Naumann’s unwarranted critique of Japanese modernization was equal to spitting in his own face. After this initial confrontation, Naumann and Mori exchanged yet another vitriolic round of critique, rebutting each other’s claims in the pages of Allgemeine Zeitung. Naumann’s rebuttal article, “Rintaro Mori’s ‘Truth about Japan’” appeared on 10 and 11 January 1887, and Mori Rintarō’s response, “Once Again on the Truth about Japan,” was published on 1 February 1887. As is often the case with academic disputations, the second round of arguments did not add any substantially new elements to the original points of contention. Rather, they were laden with the usual academic clichés: Naumann claimed that he had been misquoted, misinterpreted, and intentionally misunderstood, while Mori endlessly reiterated his initial points. Therefore, without further contributions from either side, the “Naumann controversy” ended with both claiming their own victory in the dispute. Naumann’s consistently condescending attitude towards Japanese people and culture does not require further elaboration. What greater historical significance then can be found in the emotionally charged confrontation between Mori and Naumann in 1886 and 1887? Most obvious is the symbolic significance of this act of rebellion, one that occurred in the very heart of Germany, against a German authority of academic orientalism. Importantly, what Mori proved, more than anything else, was that Japanese people could think and act independently, often deftly using the jargon and technical terms of European intellectuals. Indeed, Mori Rintarō was a post-colonialist, poignantly revealing the pretence and hypocrisy of orientalist thrust, long before the official ending of colonialism. On another level, Mori’s crusade against Naumann clearly shows the formative effects of the experience of living in a foreign land fraught with racial and cultural prejudices on the self-identification of Japanese doctors. The day-to-day struggle of the Japanese doctors in Germany taught them that their wholehearted embrace of modern German medicine should not necessarily equate to the sacrifice of their dignity as a member of a rapidly modernizing nation state. They were disciples of modern medicine as it was being developed and envisioned in Germany, but they were never devoid of national pride. Rather, their experience in Germany confirmed their conviction that their pursuit of medical

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research found its meaning mostly within the perimeter of its utility in the service of national and imperial cause. It was in this light of being a champion of modernization of Western origin, yet simultaneously ­being critical of it,34 that Mori Rintarō claimed that science was a knife that must not cut into the social body or threaten its organic integrity. ­In other words, as Thomas LaMarre argues, to Mori and like-minded Japanese physicians, when science and the social body were in a contradictory relationship, science should be sacrificed for the cause of nation state and empire.35 At the heart of another emerging empire, Japanese doctors transformed themselves into doctors of their own empire. Conclusion As much as Japanese medical students devoted themselves to reaping the fruits of modern German medical achievements in Germany, they also actively observed German culture. “During the day,” Japanese medical students “would study in the lecture halls and the laboratories with the other students, all full of enthusiasm.” Yet, “in the evening” they “would go to the theatre or the dance hall, then while away the time in coffee shops and end up strolling home under the lonely light of the street lamps just as the sweepers in their horse-drawn carts were beginning their rounds.”36 Meanwhile, these Japanese students found themselves being observed by the curious eyes of local Germans. Many of them succumbed to the penetrating eyes of exoticization and became victims of a sense of inferiority. Some students, however, fiercely resisted the essentializing tendency of German orientalism by relativizing the power of German culture itself. In the process, they strengthened their own identity as doctors of the Japanese empire. What the Japanese doctors in Germany might not have noticed back in Japan was that their German teachers at Tokyo University were subscribing to essentially the same idea that their German colleagues in Germany relished, one that I call “imperial condescension.” If anything, being in Japan made the German doctors there even more adamant in their depiction and study of the Japanese people and culture. Let us now turn to the world of imagination that German doctors in Japan created: in their estimation, genuine academic endeavours including elaborations on Asian races, discourses that the emerging Japanese colonial empire ironically found most useful.

Chapter 5

Japan through the Stethoscope: German Physicians as Anthropologists of Meiji Japan

“On Tuesday, the fourth, we shall begin to cross the second ocean. Oh! How happily I am anticipating Japan! If only we were already there!”1 These exuberant words, penned from San Francisco by the twentythree-year-old, newlywed Berliner Emma Schultze (1855–1931) on 31 May 1878, express her blossoming expectations of a new life in Japan in a letter to her parents in Berlin. Married for a little over a month to thirty-eight-year-old Dr Wilhelm Schultze (1840–1924), a German staff surgeon dispatched to Japan in 1874, Emma Schultze was an aspiring young woman who did not shrink from the opportunity for an adventure in the Far East. As is often the case for couples on a honeymoon, her voyage to Japan was full of excitement and happiness, although it was no doubt an arduously long journey. First, Emma and Wilhelm had to travel to Southampton, England, where they boarded the Neckar, a steamship bound for New York. After crossing the Atlantic in twelve days, they continued their journey heading towards San Francisco via Buffalo, Niagara Falls, Chicago, and Salt Lake City. From there, they took the China, another steamship, to reach Yokohama, Japan. Only after suffering incessant seasickness for twenty-seven days did Emma and Wilhelm Schultze finally arrive in Japan, on 1 July 1878. The voyage the Schultzes had to endure is representative of the journeys that other German physicians and their family members venturing to Japan travelled, many times having to cross two large bodies of water, the Atlantic and the Pacific.2 As it was for Emma, a trip to Japan for many Germans was not only a journey but also an initiation into an “unfamiliar” exotic territory whereby cultural and ethnic boundaries were crossed. Certainly Japan was an unfamiliar land to them in the

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sense that they had not been there before, and travel to the other side of the globe required plenty of determination and courage even in the period of burgeoning “travel-capitalism,” thanks to which long-distance travel had become increasingly feasible.3 Yet Japan was also a familiar country in the European imagination: through various travelogues, exhibitions, and artistic artefacts from the mid-nineteenth century on,4 an ideal if not utopian image of feudal Japan had been propagated.5 Though there were also negative images revealing that the Europeans did not fail to assume their intellectual and cultural superiority, in general, Japan was overwhelmingly described as the Far Eastern El Dorado, a Promised Land for Christian missionaries, and a model of an intelligent, fair, enlightened nation.6 Like first-time Indian travellers to England who “constantly scrutinized whether the real England measured up to their hyperreal image of England,”7 German physicians continuously observed and evaluated Japanese people and culture against their own preconceptions and “colonial fantasies.”8 How did German physicians travelling to Japan reconcile this perennial question of strangeness and familiarity? What did they make of Japan, its people, and their culture? A keen interest in things Japanese was of course the natural reaction of a curious German, regardless of his or her occupation in Japan. German doctors’ engagements with the Japanese people and their culture, however, went beyond the level of an inquisitive passerby. Synchronous with the development of academic anthropology in Germany, where doctors such as Rudolf Virchow and Adolf Bastian took leading roles in organizing first societies of anthropologists such as the German Anthropological Society and the Berlin Society for Anthropology, Ethnology, and Prehistory, German doctors in Japan founded their own version of an anthropological society called the German Society for the Natural History and Ethnology of East Asia [Die Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Voelkerkunde Ostasiens, OAG] in 1873.9 Using this society as the institutional pivot for their anthropological research and activities, German doctors in Japan consciously tried to differentiate themselves from the Japanese culture and people, just as their physician-cum-anthropologist colleagues in Germany constructed the “primitive cultures” they claimed to study “objectively” and made enormous efforts to create an unbridgeable intellectual and social distance between “native” cultures and their own.10 However, the end product of these incessant dialectical processes was not just the “scientific” marginalization or essentialization

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of Japanese culture and people; significantly, German physicians themselves were equally transformed by their experiences of cultural border crossings. Indeed, when they crossed yet another two oceans in order to arrive home upon completing their supposed mission of “the diffusion of western civilization among a gifted population eager for knowledge,”11 they felt compelled to confess that a peculiar transformation had taken place within themselves, often prompting them even to criticize German imperialism. Also of notable interest here is the long afterlife of German academic anthropology in the expansion of Japan’s own empire in the first few decades of the twentieth century. As I have explicated in this book, doctors of empire brought German medicine into Japan, but what came along with them was not just medical science, but its brainchild, German anthropology, known for its obsession with the study of race. From the late 1870s to the early 1880s, anthropology in Germany changed radically. Throughout the 1860s, German anthropology retained selfconsciously liberal and cosmopolitan outlooks, but from the late 1870s, as historian Andrew Zimmerman argues, with the explicit adoption of rigorous precepts of natural science, it betrayed a narrowly nationalistic and anti-humanistic stance.12 It was at this critical juncture in the history of anthropology that the first generation of Japanese anthropologists absorbed their methodological underpinnings, first from their German teachers in Japan and subsequently from their teachers in Germany. And undoubtedly, these German-trained Japanese anthropologists, with the help of the scientific outlook of physical anthropology, provided justification for discrimination against colonial subjects within the Japanese empire. In the first section of this chapter, I discuss the founding and the activities of the German Society for the Natural History and Ethnology of East Asia (hereafter OAG). Specifically, the argument will note the peculiarities of this association, inasmuch as it functioned simultaneously as a scientific foundation and as a venue for sociability (Geselligkeit) among the German community in Tokyo and Yokohama.13 Then, I will compare and contrast the writings of two notable physicians, Leopold Müller and Erwin Baelz, who in many respects exemplified two different perspectives of German physicians on Japan and the gradual transition from one to the other. Finally, I will discuss the long-term influence of German physical anthropology in the formation of the racial ideas within the Japanese colonial empire by looking at two notable Japanese physicians, Koganei Yoshikiyo and Kubo Takeshi.

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The Founding and Activities of the German Society for the Natural History and Ethnology of East Asia Max von Brandt, a German Ministerresident to Japan, included the following detail in his report to the German foreign ministry on 28 April 1873: “With utmost humble obedience, I am honoured to report to the Foreign Office that on the birthday of his Majesty, the Emperor and King, after a number of Germans residing in Yokohama and Tokyo met, in order to found the ‘Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens,’ this society was definitely established on 26  April.”14 He went on to express his expectation that “the majority of Germans dwelling in East Asia will join this society, and it will be an intellectual gathering place for all Germans, and in the society’s transactions, a German press organ will be created, from which a German political newspaper will, it is to be hoped, develop in the not too distant future.”15 Though the newspaper Brandt envisaged did not materialize until 1903 as the Deutsche Japan-Post, his hope of creating “an intellectual gathering place” was fulfilled, and this society was and remains today as the most prominent German scientific and cultural organization in Japan, and once counted among its members virtually all the Germans residing in Japan.16 The key characteristic of this organization is evident from its very inception on 22 March 1873. Of the six founding officers of the society, three were faculty members of Tokyo Medical School. Leopold Müller was the vice chairman; Franz Hilgendorf of the pre-medical faculty was the secretary; and Dr Cochius, also on the faculty of the pre-medical school, was the society’s librarian. Considering that Max von Brandt was selected as the chairman of the society largely due to his official position as the diplomatic representative of Germany, although he served only a nominal function in leading the society,17 it is fair to assume that medical doctors were the dominant group within the society. This trend continued through the active participation of physicians such as Friedrich Karl Wilhelm Dönitz, Theodor Hoffmann, Heinrich Botho Scheube, and Agathon Wernich at least until 1904, with a peak around the year 1890, when the society claimed physicians Erwin Baelz and Julius Scriba as its most prominent members. The predominance of physicians in the membership of the society was what principally distinguished it from other like-minded associations in Japan. This academic distinction becomes clearer when the OAG is juxtaposed with similar organizations such as the Asiatic Society of

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Japan, which had been established a year earlier in Yokohama and whose members consisted mainly of British and American diplomats, businessmen, and missionaries living in Japan – a significant number of whom were not specialists in any field of medical or natural sciences.18 Rather, the composition of the OAG indicates the parallel development of nascent ethnological societies in Germany such as the Berlin Anthropological Society, which was founded in 1869 by leading physicians Rudolf Virchow and Adolf Bastian, and which retained its character as a voluntary, extra-academic association.19 What differentiated the OAG from societies in Berlin such as Die Deutsche Orient Gesellschaft was its actual location in Japan. Its very presence in Japan made the society’s arguments and findings more convincing in comparison to the sporadic travel reports of “globe-trotters.” Furthermore, as one historian rightly points out regarding the writing style of OAG members, the “perspective is obviously different from that of a diplomat or a trader or a missionary, more detached and perceptive in the main.”20 And German doctors of the society wanted to stipulate what they regarded as the defining function of the society in its mission statement. In its ordinance of 26 April 1873, the society proclaimed: “The mission of the society is … to provide members with an opportunity to exchange their perspectives and experiences with regard to the countries of East Asia, to encourage the exploration of the East Asian countries, and through the publication of the transactions of the society to spread and broaden the scientific knowledge of East Asia.”21 The OAG’s self-imposed identity as a predominantly male scientific association – women were not allowed to join until 1909 – was, however, continuously contested through the changing circumstances of German–Japanese relations and the related transformation of the German community in Japan.22 German expatriates in Japan consisted of two disparate groups: the so-called Gelehrtenkolonie (community of men of learning) in Tokyo and the Kaufmannskolonie (community of merchants) in Yokohama.23 As was the case in other parts of the world, there was a latent enmity between these two groups. A 24 December 1885 letter written by German Georg Michaelis, a legal adviser to the Meiji government, clearly displays this animosity: Tokyo’s colony is particularly nice; almost everybody living here is engaged in academics … To the contrary, Yokohama is a terrible place. There live only merchants, who may be rich today, but tomorrow can lose everything. Always in volatile situations, what dominates them as a result is

Japan through the Stethoscope  107 wasteful luxury and passion for material possessions among the families and a somewhat crude tone among the unmarried crowd.24

Academics of the OAG may well have wanted to have their own society, but they knew all too well that their economic standing in Japan did not allow this luxury. Paying for the society’s rental of a meeting place and for the publication of Mitteilungen and Nachrichten required a significant sum of money, which could by no means be covered solely by the ten-dollar subscription fee and two-dollar monthly dues. There­ fore, to make ends meet, the society had to raise money from its relatively wealthy members; invariably, these people were merchants and traders residing in Yokohama, who were more interested in the less scientific programs of the society. More significantly, the core constituent of the society, namely, the Gelehrtenkolonie of Tokyo, was in the process of disintegration by 1904, as the Japanese government deliberately did not renew the contracts of German academics at Japanese institutions in order to free their positions for Japan’s own scholars. As a corollary to the “forced migration” of these academics, and because of the increasing influx of German businessmen into Japan, the OAG was now under substantial pressure from its less culturally active members to make sure that its gatherings were accessible to the educated middle class of Germany in Japan, while at the same time increasing the socializing aspect of associational life.25 The result was a compromise made in 1909: lectures not directly pertaining to East Asian topics were to be allowed, and women were to be invited “regularly with suitable lecture topics.”26 During a typical monthly meeting, which alternated on a bimonthly basis between Tokyo and Yokohama, three different lectures were usually delivered, each of which, as stipulated, could not exceed half an hour in length and was followed by no more than ten minutes of discussion.27 At committee meetings, the content of such lectures as well as articles submitted to Mitteilungen would be scrutinized to see if they were too scientific or popular in nature. Further­ more, the OAG arranged a vast array of social activities, such as trips and excursions, art exhibitions, concerts, and parties as a social venue for the German community. These concessions, however, were not strong enough to fundamentally challenge the core mission of the society. For instance, as late as the general meeting on 29 March 1923, the society made it clear once again that “we shall have success in the areas of sociability and cultivating relations with our Japanese members only if, as in the past, scholarship

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and Kultur, that is to say, the truly German field, remains as the centrepiece of our activities.”28 What kinds of scholarship and Kultur did these academically and culturally minded Germans in Japan produce and articulate? Topically, as the name of the society implies, its activities were devoted primarily to the study of the natural history and ethnology of Japan. Two hundred and thirty-eight out of 680 articles published between 1873 and 1968 were devoted to various topics roughly categorized under the rubric of ethnology and the natural sciences.29 The monthly meetings and publications in the Mitteilungen covered wide-ranging topics: for example, members of the society kept a day-by-day report of changes in the weather and, using various geological techniques, recalculated the height of Mount Fuji. In addition, members produced reports on the history of Japanese emperors and on the Japanese legal system as well as on the hygienic circumstances of the Japanese people and the ethnic origins of the Ainu tribe. Simply put, their research spanned almost every aspect of modern scholarship – from botany to zoology, from mythology to linguistics. Of course, “hot topics” changed over time: in its first decade, the society published mainly on the medical history and natural history of Japan; between 1884 and 1886, statistical, geological, and agricultural approaches gained momentum; and in 1888 and 1889, the Japanese legal system found itself en vogue. What kinds of “scientific” knowledge, then, did the society disseminate and what does this reveal about German culture at the time? In the following discussion, I will focus on two prolific members of the OAG: Leopold Müller and Erwin Baelz. These society members are important for the discussion, for their fame and popularity far surpassed those of other members of the society and, moreover, their writings in the period of the mid-1870s to 1900 also reveal a curious transformation of the German community’s “imagined realities” of Japan. Imperial Condescension As we learned in chapter 2 of this book, the schedules of the first two German teachers in Tokyo were anything but leisurely. Leopold Müller emphasized that, especially during his first year in Japan, he was extremely occupied. According to him, he had to work almost ten to twelve hours each day. In addition to four hours of lectures and clinical teaching, he spent an additional half-hour training his interpreter, while

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yet another half-hour was required to learn basic-level Japanese language. Finally, he spent four and more hours preparing lectures and handling the everyday operation of the school.30 This hectic schedule did not, however, preclude him from attending various social gatherings of German expatriates in Tokyo and Yokohama, let alone his weekend strolls through temples, markets, and music scenes in Tokyo and surrounding areas. If anything, he regretted not having a sufficient language proficiency to appreciate the Japanese people and their culture more thoroughly. From his arrival in 1871 until his departure in 1875, Müller was the highly acclaimed and popular figurehead of the OAG (he eventually became the chairman of the society in 1875), and its most active propagator of Japanese studies. His publications include studies on the history of midwifery in Japan, on the history of Japanese music, and on Japanese gardening31 – all of which were delivered as a series of lectures upon his return to Germany. For instance, in January and February of 1877, at an exhibition of Japanese objects at the Berliner KunstAkademie, Müller delivered a series of lectures that included the following topics: “Pictures from Japanese Lives,” “Japan and Its People,” “On Fengshui: the Main Feature of the Chinese-Japanese View on Nature,” and finally “Japanese-Chinese Music.”32 From his writings and lecture notes, it is clear above all that Müller made a conscious effort to record his glimpses of “old” Japan. Obviously, it was more interesting and stimulating for him to capture the disappearing traditions of a country which in his view was still encumbered by pre-modern forms of development. Yet, the Japan he presented was changing rapidly in the face of internal and external tensions as well as in the field of medicine, not least through his own efforts. On a normal weekend day, for instance, Müller could be found on one of his many reconnaissance trips to various Japanese Shinto temples in Tokyo, after which he would bring his findings to the attention of the OAG.33 His appreciation of Japanese people and their traditional culture, how­ ever, was seriously hampered both by constraints on his freedom of movement and by his lack of Japanese-language skill. After being assigned to a special lodging designated for faculty members at Tokyo Medical School, Müller was under the constant surveillance of Japanese guardsmen. Those eight guardians, hired and paid by the Japanese police department, were there mainly for the security of Müller – as there had been numerous instances of attacks on foreigners by locals – but they were also following his every move.34 What was more restricting was his

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Leopold Müller dressed as an explorer with a hat. In Japan, ca. 1875. It is apparently a staged picture of the time where Europeans are poised to boast of their adventurous spirit while a Japanese servant is serving his European masters. Courtesy of Berlin Landesarchiv, E Rep 200–35, Nr. 53.

lack of competency in the Japanese language. It was not that Müller did not try to learn the Japanese language at all. Quite the contrary. His posthumous collection of memos now stored in the Berlin Regional Archive (Berlin Landesarchiv) does indeed include the Japanese-language lesson book that Müller used in Japan.35 Müller worked diligently, but found his experience of learning Japanese extremely frustrating due to the various honorific forms of Japanese language based on ever-changing relationships between speaker and listener. According to his own estimation,

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Müller believed that it would take at least six or seven years to learn Japanese, a significant amount of time that he simply did not have.36 Frustrated, he stopped, and the result was that he could not achieve even the most basic level of Japanese-language comprehension.37 This placed him in the same position as Emma Schultze, who due to her lack of language competency, had an inordinately superficial regard for the Japanese people and their culture. Although Mrs Schultze had prepared herself by studying a Japanese-language book on board the steamship China, along with her favourite books of astronomy and meteorology,38 and although she boasted that only three days after her arrival she could make herself understood quite well to her servants with the help of a dictionary,39 it is obvious from her later letters that, even just before her departure in 1881, her level of Japanese was barely sufficient to guide her through the interactions of everyday life. Con­ sequently, Müller had to rely on “things European” to gauge “things Japanese” as he attempted to draw meaning from Japanese cultural practices. For instance, Müller crafted a study of Japanese music and musical instruments, which was necessary because, in his words, “no Japanese musicians have ever tried to theorize or have heard there is something called theory.”40 In this examination, Müller related that he was curious “whether there is any similarity to German music and instruments” and used a mathematical method to compute and compare the frequency of sounds made by Japanese musical instruments. Müller’s fascination with “pre-modern” or “old” Japan, however, was not a reflection of his fervent desire to fully appreciate Japan’s history and culture. Rather, it was an expression of a haughty German doctor who felt himself to be superior to the Japanese in every way possible. A quixotic episode that took place during his audience with the Japanese emperor clearly betrays Müller’s peculiar attitude that is representative of the German self-image of cultural superiority, subtly embedded in the Prussian tradition of militarism. On 17 December 1871, in a letter to his mother in Germany, Müller reported the “incident” he had with the Japanese emperor. Upon his arrival in the presence of the emperor, he was supposed to take off his shoes before his reception, in accordance with prevailing ceremonial rules. Describing “this absurd situation of having full uniform barefoot,” Müller chose instead to shorten his stay and took resolute steps to protect his dignity. “Your Majesty,” he announced firmly to the Japanese emperor, “by virtue of my dignity as a Prussian staff surgeon I decided to be at your service. To my dignity, these boots also belong.”41 Reminiscent of Lord

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Macartney, who was in 1793 the first European to refuse to fully bend his knee when bowing to the Chinese emperor on the grounds of his dignity as a “free-born” English gentleman,42 this episode clearly depicts Müller’s innate self-image of Western cultural superiority that was a legacy of the broader context of European conceptions of the Far East. Biosopher: Erwin Baelz and Racial Pigeonholing If the 1870s can be defined as the initial period of German–Japanese cultural interaction, a time in which the image of Japan was invoked without a deeper understanding of the culture and society that accompany it, then the last two decades of the nineteenth century, as exemplified by the work of Erwin Baelz, represents a different stage in the propagation of knowledge about Japan in German culture.43 Unlike Müller, whose relatively short stay in Japan prevented him from fully mastering the Japanese language, Baelz, who came from the small town of Bietigheim near Stuttgart, married a Japanese wife and stayed in Japan for almost a quarter of a century (1876–1904). The scope of his writings and research is simply astounding. Engaging in anthropology in the broadest definition of the term, Baelz moved freely from the study of prehistoric traces of Japanese customs to the ethnographical relations of Asian civilization to a paper on hot baths, in addition to work in his primary field of medical science. In other words, the rise of Baelz signified the disenchantment with an overly simplistic stereotype of Japanese culture, a shift in sources of information, and the increased assimilation of Germans within Japanese culture. But at the core of Baelz’s academic concern was the identification of the Japanese as a race, a key feature that differentiated him from Müller. True to his self-assessment as a “biosopher,” a neologism that he coined to denote scholars who “supply the world with genuine biological values instead of with merely speculative systems,”44 Baelz regarded physical measurements of both the skulls and bodies of living people as fundamental to his academic adventure and believed that this meticulous scientific methodology distinguished him from those of “globetrotters” who relied mainly on fleeting impressions. Based on this reasoning, Baelz was diligent in his anthropological explorations during his tenure in Japan. For more than a decade, Baelz measured thousands of Japanese people throughout the Japanese archipelago and even made extended anthropological expeditions to Vietnam, where he

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found, in his own words, “so many semi-savage tribes” and “unpreserved game.”45 Before we learn more about this racial definition of Japanese culture, we should remember that the addition of race to the scope of anthropological understanding of the Japanese and their culture did not ­necessarily mean that the historical German ethnographic “gaze,” as exemplified by Müller, had fallen out of fashion. Imperial condescension was alive and well in the house of Baelz. The difference between Baelz and Müller lay simply in the adoption of disparate methods to reach the same conclusion. Thus, for Baelz, as for most contemporary Europeans, Japan was still construed as a pristine place where the simple life flourished. The Japanese were, in his opinion, “a happy people with a happy temperament.”46 Throughout his stay in Japan, Baelz continued to be amazed by the “happy nature” of the people, who were “carefree and innocent as children.”47 As for the landscape and scenery, Baelz claimed “a vision of a fairyland.”48 Essentially, the European fascination with Japan and its people as constituting a pristine and blissful lifestyle and landscape did not diminish in the transition from Müller to Baelz. Rather, Japan’s rapid adaptation to Western standards, or more precisely the appropriation and co-opting of Westernized models, aroused a feeling of concern in European observers. On the one hand, this concern stemmed from the anxiety German physicians felt about the final disappearance of a pre-modern paradise on Earth. What seemed most troubling to Baelz was the unwillingness of the Japanese to preserve their wonderful cultural endowments. “Their own history, their own religion, their own art,” writes Baelz, “did not seem to the Japanese worth talking about, and were even regarded as matters to be ashamed of … The older generation would not teach and the younger generation would not learn anything but European science.”49 However, more important concerns arose from fear over whether European institutions could simply be transplanted onto Japanese soil. In a 22 November 1901 speech during his twenty-five-year jubilee celebration, Baelz lamented the Japanese lack of understanding of the European Spirit, a point that, as we learned in the previous chapter, a German geologist, Naumann, strove to make against Mori Rintarō in 1886: It seems to me that in Japan erroneous conceptions about the origin and nature of western science are widely prevalent. It is regarded as a machine

114  Doctors of Empire which can turn out so much work every year, and therefore as a machine which can without further ado be transported to any other part of the world to continue to do its work. This is a mistake. The western scientific world is not a machine, but an organism, and, like every other organism, if it is to thrive it needs a particular climate, or atmosphere … The spiritual atmosphere of the West is the result of what numerous outstanding intellects have achieved over a thousand years. It was a hard road, watered through noble sweat and also by the blood that has been spilt.50

For Baelz, Japanese attempts to imitate and adopt European modernization were certainly a necessary step towards a modern and enlightened state; yet at the same time, he concluded that their efforts were futile, since it would be impossible for the Japanese to fully understand the spirit of German medicine. Why, in Baelz’s view, were the Japanese not capable of fully comprehending the essence of German science and medicine? To put it differently, exactly how were the Japanese different from the Germans? Baelz found the answer to these questions in his study of Japanese racial characteristics. Like his anthropologist colleagues in Germany who believed that there were empirically discernible types that exhibited corresponding and unchanging essences, Baelz argued that Asians had distinctive and immutable physiognomic racial elements. For him, the most persuasive and likely way to identify these racial components was through accurate measurements of skulls and facial bones. “It seems very easy to study living human beings,” Baelz emphasized, “but it is  not.”51 Photographs might be an easy solution, but Baelz shared his scepticism of the accuracy of photographic representation with his German colleagues.52 To eliminate all possibilities of erroneous visual cues and to amass accurate measurements of contours of skulls and skeletons for what he termed “comparative anthropology,” Baelz resorted to time-consuming and repetitive physical measurements using thin and flexible copper wires. In particular, Baelz regarded cranial circumference, anatomical variability between skull and facial bones, and the shape of the base of the neck as quintessential in determining racial elements.53 Based on his extensive research, Baelz claimed that those people living in the greater East Asian region consisted mostly of three distinctive physiognomic racial elements, of course, with various proportions in  different regions. According to Baelz, the first type, the KoreanManchurian, can be described as having “a big, splendid mature figure,”

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with a long face, a broad and high forehead, a slender, long trunk, and fine extremities. Including the ruling Manchus in China, many of those in northern China, the greater part of the Korean population, and a small minority of the Japanese, Baelz claimed, “the Korean-Manchurian type combines the characteristics of the Turkic peoples with individual peculiarities of the Mongols,” thus making some of those Asians with a strong Turk-semitic element very much look like Jews, an observation that had been popular among a few unconventional scholars such as N. McLeod from the late 1870s.54 The second element according to Baelz is the Mongol-Malayan type that constitutes the bulk of the East Asian nations: a small man, usually below 160 cm, “about the size of the Hungarians,” boasting “a strong, stocky, medium length neck” with “round eyes, a broader nose, and a big mouth, with massive and short legs.”55 As per Baelz’s estimation, at least two-thirds of the Japanese belonged to this group and even more in China, while only those residing in the southwest region of the Korean peninsula could be said to share the same racial traits, that is, facial expressions, eye, and skin colour.56 Finally, the third type, prominent in the Hokkaido region, the Ryūkyū islands (Okinawa), Manchuria, and northern Korea, was the Ainu type. With striking Caucasian facial features, the Ainu were the branch of the Caucasian-related race that had dominated North Asia before they were driven out by the Mongols and the Turkish ethnic groups in the first millennium. In general, the Ainus are a small people (on average men were 157 cm, women 146 cm) with a strong neck, large hands and feet, and emblematic body hairs.57 Admittedly, from today’s perspective, Baelz’s theory of racial mixing and compartmentalization in East Asia sounds pseudo-scientific and seems oftentimes far-fetched. For instance, after identifying the three racial types, Baelz even associated them with different social classes in Korea and Japan, the Korean-Manchurian type being dominant in both Korean aristocracy and Japanese daimyos (regional lords), whereas the Mongol-Malayan type were mostly commoners in the two countries.58 But what was even more alarming than the internal racial stratification of the society was the implicit political utility of his racial theory. In a  nutshell, Baelz’s theory of racial compartmentalization meant that, as with the emerging racial anti-Semitism in Europe, being racially different signified a gap that was not bridgeable by any means. On the flip side, however, it also meant that racially similar and even related ­nations should cooperate or assimilate. It was in this light that Baelz

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cheered for the annexation of Korea by Japan. “I am sure that the best thing for the country [Korea] would be that Japan should annex it,” wrote Baelz when he came back from the anthropological expedition to Korea in July 1903. “The example of the Japanese, who are so efficient, would have a stimulating effect, whereas did the Russians take it over, they would never assimilate it.”59 Baelz’s racial theory of Asians did not, however, find much of an audience in Germany for a number of reasons. The primary reason for this invisibility is without doubt Baelz’s rather unremarkable medical career in Germany. Baelz looms large in Japan, but juxtaposed with his transformative activities in Japan, the influence of Baelz in imperial Germany, at least in the field of medical science, seems minuscule. Baelz came to Japan as a professor of medicine at the relatively young age of twenty-seven. In contrast to the first generation of German doctors in Japan, such as Müller and Hoffmann, who had been carefully chosen by the German government, Baelz secured his position in Tokyo through a rather fortuitous meeting with an unnamed Japanese official who had come under his care at a Leipzig university clinic, where Baelz worked as a senior assistant. After securing the official’s recommendation and eventually a contract from Aoki Shūzo, the Japanese ambassador in Berlin, in January 1876, Baelz departed for Japan in the same year; in other words, Baelz did not have much time to develop his career in Germany before his engagement with Japan, which may have led German scholars to lump him in with the numerous imperial adventurers in Germany who were determined to take advantage of the opportunities presented to them. Even among those who might lend their ears, Baelz was patently isolated. Admittedly, his poignant isolation within the circle of orientalist scholars was in part self-inflicted. As historian Suzanne Marchand reminds us, a ju-jitsu-practising physician married to a non-Christian Japanese wife did not quite fit into the image of a typical armchair scholar of the Orient.60 In turn, Baelz’s strong disapproval of the kaiser and German diplomatic corps in East Asia and his overly critical stance towards German colonial policy in China, most critically revealed in his op-ed of 1906 where he declared “Kiao-chow is nothing but an embarrassment to Germany,” made Baelz unpopular, if not anathema, among academics and policymakers in Germany.61 But the self-imposed obscurity of Baelz in Germany should not lead us to conclude prematurely that he was nothing more than a queer orientalist, whose orientalism, in the words of Marchand, “the Kaiserreich

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could not use.”62 Instead, as I will argue in the next section of this chapter, Baelz was an exemplary figure whose vigorous engagement with Asia compels us to rethink the global transfer and appropriation of knowledge in the age of empire. Afterlife of German Physical Anthropology in Japan While Germans turned deaf ears to Baelz, Japanese scholars and interested publics enthusiastically embraced Baelz’s theory of racial composition. The reason for the popularity of his racial theory did not lie in the scholarly merit of Baelz, who, as historian Rotem Kowner corroborates, “notwithstanding his methodical measurements … provided only limited and ad hoc data to support his classification.”63 Rather, the most immediate reason was the full-blown expansion of the J­ apa­nese empire. On 17 November 1905, the Japan-Korea Protec­torate Treaty was signed, and Korea officially became a protectorate of the Japanese empire. In this newly configured world order, it was blatantly apparent that Baelz’s recognition of the common racial components between the Koreans and the Japanese provided readily available scientific evidence to those who embraced what Andre Schmid calls “a racial ­pan-­Asianism”64 and to Japanese annexationists who claimed the inevitability of the annexation of Korea by Japan. In addition to the apparent political utility of his theory, what also transformed Baelz’s theory of racial composition into a strand of the powerful racial discourses among the Japanese was a range of extrascientific factors, such as “Baelz’s long acquaintance with Japan, his extensive empirical studies on the Japanese body, and his seemingly objective medical approach.”65 Furthermore, his long acquaintances with high-profile politicians such as Aoki Shūzō (the Japanese ambassador in Berlin and later foreign minister), Inoue Kaoru (Japan’s first foreign minister and one of the nine genrō, “founding fathers,” of Meiji Japan), Katsura Tarō (three-time prime minister), and Itō Hirobumi (four-time prime minster and the first resident general of Korea) added another layer of legitimacy to Baelz as a scientist and scholar. But the single most pivotal factor that guaranteed the longevity of Baelz’s theory as a referential framework for future inquiries into the racial characteristics of the Japanese and the Koreans was his paramount influence on a leading group of Japanese physicians from Tokyo Imperial University and newly emerging professional anthropologists. As is well known, the first Japanese anthropological society, the Tokyo Anthropological Association, was founded in 1884 by Tsuboi Shōgorō

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(1863–1913), who studied in England. The defining characteristic of this dilettante group was their reliance on archaeological excavations as a way to reconstruct and analyse the prehistoric traits of the Japanese and their civilization.66 Against this school of antiquarian anthropologists, as we just learned, Baelz introduced a new methodology of physiognomic anatomy into Japan, and it eventually replaced the first group by the 1920s. The first Japanese practitioner of this new methodology was Koganei Yoshikiyo (1858–1944), who is now widely regarded as the founding father of Japanese physical anthropology.67 A prodigious and precocious student who entered the preparatory school for medicine (Daigaku Nankō) at age twelve, Koganei took courses from Baelz when he came to Japan in 1876 as a faculty member of Tokyo Medical School. The triggering event for their lifetime collaboration came in 1878, when Baelz travelled to Niigata prefecture to inspect and measure patients at local hospitals and chose three student assistants, including Koganei. According to anthropologist Suzuki Hisahi, it was during this trip that Baelz introduced Koganei to the world of anthropology, a nascent academic pursuit to which he himself had only recently become a contributor.68 Two years later, in 1880, Koganei graduated from Tokyo Medical School and subsequently received a fellowship to study abroad from the Ministry of Education of Japan. With the clear influence of Baelz, Koganei went on to study anatomy and histology with Wilhelm von Waldeyer-Hartz (1836–1921) in Strasbourg. A global traveller and an enchanting lecturer, Waldeyer-Hartz was famous for enjoying frequent congenial evenings with his students at the Schünemann-Restaurant in Luisenstraße, but he was best known as the long-standing chairman of the Anthropological Society in Berlin and as one of the most prominent supporters of the International Congress for Anthropology and Anatomy.69 During his six-year sojourn in Germany, Koganei developed a strong appreciation for anatomical anthropology and built up a professional network with eminent German anthropologists such as Rudolf Virchow (1821–1902), his son Hans Virchow (1852–1940), and Gustav Schwalbe (1844–1916), all while following new anthropological research coming from Japan, such as Baelz’s 1883 article “The Physi­ cal Characteristics of the Japanese” (Die Körperlichen Eigenschaften der Japaner). In this respect, it is no coincidence that after coming back to Japan in 1885 as the very first Japanese member of the faculty of anatomy at Tokyo Medical School, Koganei immediately sought out his own primitive

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objects and began replicating Waldeyer’s anthropological anatomy on his native Japanese soil and empire. Corresponding with the period of the “internal colonization” of Japan, that is, the physical and conceptual incorporation of Ryūkyū (Okinawa) and Hokkaido, Koganei’s research involved comparative anatomical studies of the Ainu in their relation to the racial identity of the Japanese, finding places for the Ainu tribe from the perspective of phrenology and morphological anthropology.70 What Baelz started did not just end with his protégé Koganei. Baelz and Koganei’s pursuit of identifying the Japanese as a race in the context of comparative anthropology – the so-called nihon-jinsui-ron [debate on the origin of the Japanese race] – was to culminate in the work of Kubo Takeshi (1879–1922?), an anatomist and physical anthropologist, whose name now remains in disgrace. In his 1913 doctoral dissertation, titled “Contributions to the Physical Anthropology of the Koreans” (Beiträge zur physischen Anthropologie der Koreaner), dedicated to Koganei, Kubo, a professor of anatomy at Keijō Medical College in Seoul from 1916, articulates that the aim of his research was “to determine whether and to what extent Koreans stand in their physical and anthropological relations to the Japanese.”71 To clarify this connection as accurately as possible, Kubo conducted extensive measurements of living Korean bodies during his initial three-year tenure in Korea from 1907 to 1910. In his 718-page dissertation, written entirely in German and submitted to Tokyo Imperial University, Kubo reveals that he measured a grand total of 3425 Koreans. As if to remind us of the unequal power relations at the very heart of anthropology as an academic discipline, the objects – or, as anthropologists prefer, “materials” (zairyō) – of his anthropological measurements were those who were deprived of their physical freedom, albeit temporarily: students, soldiers, and prostitutes. In 1908, for instance, Kubo measured 805 Korean students using various occasions such as the normal school entrance exam day on 13 April, when he measured eighty-five students. Similarly, in 1909 and 1910, he measured another 674 and 735 students respectively at five public schools and one private one. In addition, with the help of the Japanese military and police force in Korea, Kubo measured 651 Korean soldiers (former imperial guards aged between fifteen and thirty-­seven) from 19 April to 26 May 1909 and 560 female prostitutes aged fourteen to thirty-two from June 1908 to October 1909. The benign word “measurement” does not do justice to the painstaking efforts of the anthropologists involved and says nothing of the

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feelings of estrangement and humiliation that the subjects had to endure. An anthropological measurement is much more than a simple notation of height and weight; it involves sophisticated equipment including an anthropometer and requires at least two rooms, one for actual observation and measurements and another for changing clothes. Using equipment that he purchased from Zürich at the recommen­ dation of Koganei and applying Schmidt’s 1888 “Anthropologischen Methoden” as well as the work of such renowned anthropologists as Rudolf Virchow and Luschan, Kubo conducted no fewer than 105 measurements for each individual, and based on these numbers made eleven indexes.72 The overall body received twelve measurements, while the head alone received thirty-two, including the length and width of the head, the distance between the eyes (inside and outside), the height and depth of the nose, and the length of the ear. As such, it took a while for Kubo to “get the hang of it.” On the first day of his measurement of soldiers (19 April 1909), Kubo measured and recorded only ten men. Even with the help of an assistant he used from the second day onwards, it took a total of thirty-nine days to measure all the soldiers.73 Measuring the bodies of female prostitutes was even more challenging because Kubo was essentially trying to take advantage of their monthly examinations for venereal diseases by the police doctor, K. Yamamoto. As he could not disturb the main task, Kubo embraced two-step procedures. First, while Yamamoto checked the prostitutes for venereal diseases, Kubo “secretly” observed external reproductive organs (the colour of genitalia, the shape of pubic hairs, etc.). This served another purpose for him as well; since these ladies had already exposed their private parts to him, Kubo maintained, they would not necessarily feel ashamed when he observed and measured other body parts.74 Kubo completed his measurement during the short break between the main examinations.75 His observations lasted from June 1908 to September 1909, involving thirteen visits over twenty-six days. All logistical and technical difficulties aside, Kubo did not encounter any active resistance from his 3425 dehumanized “materials.” The overwhelming presence of school officials, military, and police officers must have immediately rendered any attempt at resistance futile, but Kubo rather proudly ascribed the overall success to his deceptive tactic of invoking the image of a healing doctor. Fortunately, I did not encounter any difficulties with these observations … Not a single Korean has refused to be measured, because I used the pretext

Japan through the Stethoscope  121 that my work is indispensable in researching cures for them. In addition, it was easy and convenient that I always brought with me a stethoscope like a practising physician would do so that I could create the belief that it was a matter of medical research.76

Although Kubo’s work exemplified the culmination of physical anthropology in Japan that had been developing in the hands of German and German-educated physicians-cum-anthropologists, his anatomical anthropology was flawed from its very inception. First, Kubo’s observation and theory suffered from racial reductionism, attributing all social, cultural, economic, and intellectual differences to predetermined racial categories of Korean and Japanese. In other words, in Kubo’s mind, Koreans and Japanese were already distinct ethnic, racial, and national groups, hiding their immutable racial traits. As such, whenever Kubo found something unique in his measurements of “Koreans,” he readily assigned an inferior status to it. This tendency was most pronounced when Kubo attempted to associate racial traits with cultural and social development levels. After measuring and comparing the muscles of Koreans and Japanese, for instance, Kubo argued that the development of the mastication muscles, digestive organs, respiratory organs, and reproductive organs among Koreans correlated with their primitive level of culture and civilization. Seen from our twenty-first-century perspective, Kubo’s racial determinism sounds crude and far-fetched despite all the ostentatious paraphernalia of scientific inquiry. Contemporary observers, even those in the colony, also immediately recognized the unsavoury agenda of creating and supporting a strict racial hierarchy hidden beneath the sleek cloak of science.77 But, as historian Arnaud Nanta argues, the power of racial discourse lies not “with the method, but with the question itself.”78 It is precisely in this light that it is significant to recognize the role played by German and Germany-educated anthropologists of the late nineteenth century such as Baelz and Koganei. They were the ones who set up the question and the rules for the subsequent generations of anthropologists to follow in the evolution of the only non-white modern empire in East Asia. Conclusion Gathering voluntarily through the OAG, German doctors studied, discussed, and often “created” their own interpretations of Japanese

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people and their culture. Penetrating the entire period of German engagement with Japan in the second half of the nineteenth century was what I would call “imperial condescension,” a mindset that belittled the intellectual and cultural capacities and achievements of the Japanese people. The incessant infatuation with “old Japan,” however, took different forms, transitioning from Müller’s rather naive yet forceful claim of German superiority to Baelz’s more “scientific” physical anthropology. Baelz’s racial theory did not find much use in the development of the German empire in East Asia; after all, the racial superiority of Germans did not need much elaboration with regard to “yellow” Asians. The most avid consumer of Baelz’s theory of racial composition was no other than Meiji Japan, whose peculiarity as the only non-white modern imperial power that had narrowly missed its own colonial subjugation required theoretical refashioning of the racial relations in its own empire in East Asia. In Japan, Baelz’s theory functioned as the “devil’s handwriting” of the Japanese colonial endeavour.79 According to George Steinmetz, in his thorough comparative study of German pre-coloniality and its effects in different colonies, actual colonial policies closely followed the images of indigenous peoples that Germans had constructed before the onset of actual colonial rule, resulting in the implementation of widely different policies in Southwest Africa, Samoa, and Tsingtao China. As we have seen in this chapter, Baelz’s version of the “ethnographic representation” of Asians strengthened the idea of Asian racial hierarchy and interconnectedness and in turn indelibly conditioned Japan’s unfolding colonial empire in the decades to come. Not only did his scientific authority offer justification for the forced annexation of Korea by Japan, his training of the next generation of Japanese anthropologists laid an enduring institutional foundation for his racial theory. In short, Baelz might have resided in the dungeon of “the orientalism the Kaiserreich could not use,” but he was of indispensable value to imperial Japan. Like the aphorism “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” the racial theory of Asians that did not find much value in Germany benefited the Japanese colonial empire by providing rhetorics of both assimilation and differences. But not all the spoils of medical interaction with Germany were beneficial to Japan. Just as there were promises, there were perils of encounter.

Chapter 6

Promises and Perils of Encounters: Influences of German Medicine in Japan

On 12 June 1908, standing on the deck of the steamship Siberia Maru, Robert Koch anxiously awaited disembarkation at Yokohama Harbour. To the sixty-five-year-old Nobel laureate for physiology or medicine in 1905, the twelve-day seafaring journey from Honolulu to Yokohama was a welcome respite from an onerous, seven-week-long visit to the United States that had tested his patience. The purpose of Koch’s first visit to the United States had simply been to spend a few days on his way to Japan with his two brothers Henry and Adolph, who had moved and settled respectively in St Louis, Missouri, and Keystone, Iowa. The first stop in New York for the world’s foremost expert in bacteriology was not all bad: a glittering welcome banquet at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel was arranged in his honour by the German Medical Society of the City of New York, and such notables as Andrew Carnegie and Simon Flexner (head of the Rockefeller Insti­ tute for Medical Research) duly attended the reception. The journey however quickly turned into a stressful string of events. From New York to Chicago to St Louis to San Francisco, Koch was incessantly pestered by rude reporters and overly enthusiastic followers.1 In Chicago, for instance, “a party of local scientists and several citizens stormed his apartments with pressing invitations for banquets and social gatherings,” and, according to the New York Times, this disrupting incident eventually forced Koch to deliver a blunt statement: “I am literally driven from Chicago … by oversolicitous friends and citizens and news­ paper reporters, and I am obliged to leave Chicago at once.”2 For Koch, the arrival in Japan therefore was a long-awaited escape to a place he regarded as a serene island country in Asia.

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But Koch was not so lucky. Waiting for him at the Yokohama shore was not just his former student in Berlin, Kitasato Shibasaburō, who had sent an official invitation to Koch and his second wife, Hedwig Koch. Dozens of reporters along with hundreds, if not thousands, of Japanese spectators flocked to the port to catch a glimpse of this god-like figure of modern medicine. The spectacle surrounding the Kochs’ arrival on that day even prompted Natsume Sōseki, a noted Japanese novelist and otherwise aloof observer, to make an entry in his diary about Koch. “Koch came. A lot of fireworks in Yokohama. A special steam locomotive met him. Bundles of flowers were presented. Flowers strewn on the road. Arrival at the station by carriage. Arriving at Shinbashi Station. Innumerable people welcomed him.”3 Koch’s seventy-four-day visit to Japan was decorated with reception after reception, but, if there was any consolation, reporters and fans in Japan behaved themselves much better than their American counterparts. Two days after Koch’s arrival, a public reception organized by thirty-four medical associations was held at the music school in Ueno Park, with over 1400 attendees. Following the usual suspects of activities for curious foreigners, such as attending kabuki theatre and sumo wrestling, Koch’s visit ultimately culminated in an imperial audience with the Meiji emperor on 25 June. Japanese newspapers that had diligently printed articles detailing every step of the Kochs’ journey from Germany via America to Japan4 excitedly reported that the emperor gifted a large silver bowl embossed with the imperial crest to Koch, a rare honour awarded for the first time to a foreigner.5 In reality, it was Koch alone who seemed not to have anticipated the deluge of excitement, which could be compared, without exaggeration, to a secular version of a papal visit. Koch may not have agreed with the statement that he was the personification of German medicine, but he was certainly so in the minds of the Japanese people, scholars and commoners alike. As historian William Johnston tells us, tuberculosis accounted for at least 5 per cent of the total deaths in Japan per year at that time.6 With the nation’s health at stake, Japanese health administrators and their counterparts in the academy and press closely followed and reported the discovery of tuberculin in 1890 and the medical debates on its efficacy throughout the 1890s.7 This media frenzy created the widespread popularity of Koch among the Japanese public. When Koch visited Yakushi-ji, a temple dedicated to the Buddha of Healing, on 3 August, spectators commented that “Koch must be a living Buddha of healing instructing doctors all over the world.”8 At one extreme,

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Robert Koch in Nagoya, Japan, 30 July 1908. Standing to his left is Kitasato Shibasaburō. Courtesy of Beate Wonde of Mori-Ōgai-Gedenkstätte in Berlin.

even his bald head evoked a sense of awe among his Japanese followers; Miyajima Mikinosuke, a student of Kitasato, recalled in 1931 that “its [Koch’s head] perfect shape reminded us of Confucius’ head, as described in historical works. It is said that the head of Confucius was flat on the top and very well developed at the sides. In other words a head ‘with two hills.’ Koch’s was very similar to this description. Hence, no doubt, came his ability to make such imperishable discoveries.”9 I started this chapter on the promises and perils of German medicine in Japan with Koch’s 1908 visit as his reception by the Japanese appears to be a perfect example of the imposing dominance of German medicine in Meiji Japan. The constant presence of Kitasato, who founded the Institute of Infectious Disease in Tokyo following the example of his teacher’s institute in Berlin, throughout Koch’s visit to Japan, further heightened the sense of teacher–student relations between Germany and Japan that James Bartholomew emphasized in his book on the formation of science in Japan.10

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While there is no doubt that the enthusiastic reception of Koch in Japan in 1908 reflects the degree of the Japanese fascination with German medicine, one of the central themes of this book, the Kochs’ visit is equally illuminating on another key question: whether the adoption of German medicine in Japan was overwhelmingly beneficial to the Japanese (and later to their colonial subjects). As I will show in the following pages, Koch’s visit poignantly reveals that there were competing factions within the circle of German-educated Japanese doctors who independently pursued their own versions of “German” medicine in Japan. The competition was not, however, always beneficial to the Japanese people. The gradual acceptance of bacteriology in Japan and the subsequent misdiagnosis of beriberi graphically illustrates how Japanized German medicine also inflicted unnecessary human casualties in Japan. In short, this chapter shows that German-Japanese medical encounters were never a linear, frictionless transition from Germany to Japan, medically benefiting millions of people in Japan and her expanding empire. Japan’s Pettenkofer vs. Japan’s Koch As just noted, the Kochs’ 1908 visit was an event of unprecedented scale that found no equivalent in Japan until the 1922 visit of Albert Einstein, recipient of the 1921 Nobel Prize in Physics. While most ordinary Japanese were enthusiastic about Koch, not all of the followers and practitioners of German medicine in Japan were equally jubilant about his visitation. Major academic journals of Japan such as Tōyō gakugei zasshi did not bother to report about Koch’s visit. More strikingly, the medical faculty and students of Tokyo Imperial University, the flagship institution of higher education in Meiji Japan, were lethargic about Koch’s visit. Tokyo Imperial University organized a welcome party, but begrudgingly. For these doctors, as historian Mariko Ogawa reminds us, Koch was merely a private guest of Kitasato, a maverick figure of the Japanese medical world.11 This rather lukewarm reception of a medical giant by those affiliated with Tokyo Imperial University was of course the reflection of brewing internal tension and division among Japanese doctors. Students of  German medicine in Japan were anything but a coherent group. Depending on various factors – what schools they attended in Japan, where in Germany they studied, with whom they studied, when they went to Germany – Japanese doctors coalesced into opposing groups.

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There was never a clearly demarcated line among these groups, but generally speaking, Japanese students of German medicine were roughly divided into two groups. At one pole were professors and graduates of Tokyo Imperial University and its predecessor, Tokyo Medical School, whose domination of the medical world in Japan historian Alexander R. Bay called “colonial.”12 Dominating the academic hierarchy in Japan and commanding most governmental and military medical bureaus, the Tokyo group gathered themselves initially at the Tokyo Medical Association (Tokyo Ikai) and later at the Meiji Medical Association (Meiji Ikai) of 1898 that also included graduates of Kyoto Imperial University. At the other pole were graduates of private and provincial medical colleges who had Kitasato as their leader and made their home at the Greater Japan Medical Association (Dai Nippon Ishikai) of 1893.13 Why did Kitasato, himself a graduate of Tokyo Imperial University, become the mastermind behind the faction opposing his own alma mater? The eventual emergence of Kitasato as a symbol of Japan’s modern medical science has already been recounted by Japanese historians. Most notably, James R. Bartholomew told this story in the context of the establishment of the scientific research tradition in Japan, with Kitasato as a pivotal figure.14 But the story is worth repeating here, for it also tells us in what ways Japanese physicians became the followers of their respective German teachers and competed among themselves to shape the Japanese medical world according to their own visions. Not only does it demonstrate the degree of the overbearing influence of German advisers in the formation of medical science in Japan, it also provides a glimpse into the fractured landscape of the Japanese medical world at the turn of the twentieth century. The Japanese medical world depended heavily upon and was strongly influenced by foreign teachers. As I explicated in another chapter of this book, Erwin Baelz is one such example who during his almost quarter-century tenure as a professor of Tokyo Imperial University taught virtually all medical students of the university. Furthermore as Johnston reminds us, Baelz was a strong proponent of cellular pathology,15 though he was not entirely against the application of nascent bacteriology.16 As an etiological theory best envisioned and argued by Rudolf Virchow, cellular pathology defined diseases as the outcome of a disturbance in cellular organization, whose causality Virchow and his followers found in multiple factors, including miasma, not just in a single germ as bacteriologists maintained. As is well known, Virchow’s cellular pathology was rapidly losing ground in Germany after Koch discovered

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tubercle bacillus in 1882 and invented tuberculin in 1891. But in Japan the situation was different. Unperturbed into the early 1890s and as late as the turn of the twentieth century, cellular pathology prolonged its afterlife in the Japanese medical world primarily because Baelz subscribed to it and continued to teach it at Tokyo Imperial University.17 The persistence of cellular pathology in Tokyo under the aegis of Baelz, however, should not be interpreted to mean that the wind of change in the form of bacteriology did not blow in Japan. It was quite the opposite. As early as 1878, Tokyo iji shinpō, a premier medical journal, reported methods to exterminate bacteria, and in 1884, it discussed the theory and findings of Koch and Louis Pasteur in detail.18 What propelled this preliminary discussion of bacteriology into a dominant medical theory and discourse in Japan from the late 1880s, but more intensely from the mid-1890s, was of course the intervention of Kitasato in the form of his stellar medical achievements, including the discovery of tetanus bacillus in 1889. An exemplary student of Koch, Kitasato is now remembered as the founding father of Japanese bacteriology, practically overshadowing all other medical scientists, although chronologically speaking, Kitasato was not the first Japanese bacteriologist who studied under the tutelage of German teachers. Ogata Masanori, who embarked on his study of physiology and hygienics in Leipzig in 1881 at the behest of Erwin Baelz, subsequently became a student of Max von Pettenkofer (1818–1901), a hygienist and bacteriologist in Munich, and Ogata’s return to Japan in 1884 as a disciple of Pettenkofer became a pivotal event that fractured the Japanese medical world. Remaining in relative obscurity compared to Koch, his lifelong rival, Pettenkofer is probably best known to casual readers of history for his almost suicidal attempt to drink a virulent cholera sample in 1892 as a way to prove his theory of multifactorial causation of cholera infection during the fatal outbreak of cholera in Hamburg. The first professor of hygiene in Bavaria from 1864 and founding director of the Hygienic Institute at the University of Munich from 1879, Pettenkofer developed his interest in cholera early in his career – he began his research on cholera around 1851 and by 1894 had published seventy-one articles on it.19 As to the epidemiological explanation of cholera, Pettenkofer agreed with Koch that a specific micro-organism was responsible for cholera infection. In this respect, he was a bacteriologist. But unlike Koch, who represented the contagionist camp that regarded the micro-organism as a necessary and adequate cause of cholera, and therefore emphasized isolation, quarantine, and disinfection as a solution, Pettenkofer argued

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that the microbe alone was not sufficient to cause a disease. Rectifying the contagionist view from the perspective of a miasmatist, Pettenkofer listed two other necessary conditions for a specific germ to cause a disease: certain local and seasonal conditions, and certain individual conditions.20 In particular, Pettenkofer emphasized that the cholera germ had to be transformed in the local soil into a cholera miasma, repudiating Koch’s assertion on person-to-person infection.21 From our twenty-firstcentury epidemiological perspective, which emphasizes the interactions among agent, host, and environment, this controversy between the contagionist and miasmatist seems like an unnecessarily heated one, but Pettenkofer found it to be a worthwhile effort to the point that he was willing to risk his own life. On 9 October 1892, the seventy-four-year-old bacteriologist consumed the cholera bacilli as a last resort to dispute Koch and his contagionist view. He did not die; rather, he suffered simple diarrhea. But it was clear to contemporary observers that this was merely a last-ditch effort to delay “the almost unanimous acceptance of the contagionist views.”22 There is no doubt that the confrontation between Koch and Pettenkofer was as personal as it was academic in nature. As German historian Richard Evans superbly illustrates in his detailed analysis of the 1892 cholera outbreak in Hamburg, exchanges between Koch and Pettenkofer during the Expert Commission, convened from 26 September to 1 Octo­ ber 1892 to assess the feasibility of a national epidemics law, were full of contempt and ridicule, one tirade after another, ultimately ending in a humiliating defeat for Pettenkofer. In Evans’s words, “first made the butt of Koch’s sarcasm, then simply ignored by a Commission consisting mostly of his juniors, he [Pettenkofer] was forced to sit idly by and watch the drafting of a law the provisions of which amounted to the institutionalized destruction of his whole life’s work in the field in which he had made his reputation.”23 What is intriguing to us is that this academic and personal feud between the two leading bacteriologists of Germany was re-enacted almost unchanged by their Japanese pupils, Ogata Masanori and Kitasato Shibasaburō, whom Mori Ōgai, a friend and colleague of the two, respectively called “Japan’s Pettenkofer” and “Japan’s Koch.”24 Ogata, as mentioned earlier in this section, began his academic endeavours in Germany in 1881 at Leipzig University. After studying physiology and hygienics for two years in Leipzig, Ogata, at the recommendation of Franz Hofmann, a former Pettenkofer student, moved to Munich in the spring of 1883 to study with the master of hygienics. The first-ever Japanese

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student of Pettenkofer, Ogata was a prolific scientist who impressed his teacher immensely. After working only five months in Pettenkofer’s Hygiene Institute, Ogata presented his first scientific finding under the title “On the Toxicity of Sulfurous Acid” (Ueber die Giftigkeit der schwefligen Saeure), which was subsequently published in the second issue of Archiv für Hygiene (1884). In the same year, Ogata wrote another article, “On the Influence of Stimulants on Gastric Digestion” (Über den Einfluß der Genußmittel auf die Magenverdauung), that appeared in the third issue of the same journal (1885). During his initial one-year study sojourn in Munich, Ogata did not appear to harbour any overt antagonism towards Koch and his disciples. Instead, exhibiting one of the key characteristics of Japanese students in Germany – an eclectic and almost indiscriminate “consumption” of various medical approaches – Ogata attempted to learn from Koch as well. Moving to Berlin in 1884, Ogata was, however, disappointed to know that Koch had been on research leave in India to study cholera. Thus, after briefly working with Koch’s former student Friedrich August Loefler (1852–1915) in Berlin, Ogata returned to Munich in March 1884 to become a paid assistant to Pettenkofer. During this second sojourn in Pettenkofer’s institute and after his failed attempt to learn from Koch, it is likely that Ogata steeped himself fully in the medical epidemiology of Pettenkofer while developing a close discipleship with his adviser that went beyond the usual teacher– student relationship. Letters that Ogata sent to his former teacher after his return to Tokyo in December 1884 clearly reveal his allegiance to  Pettenkofer and growing competitive antagonism towards Koch. For  instance, in a letter dated 20 May 1885, in which Ogata refers to Pettenkofer as “teacher and father” and himself as “student and son,” Ogata reminds Pettenkofer that he still remembers the public lecture that Pettenkofer delivered in Munich repudiating Koch’s claim of discovering comma bacillus and instead suggesting the validity of the bacillus his student Dr Rudolf Emmerich isolated in Naples and brought to Munich. “If we can explicate the interaction of this cholera bacillus with spatial and temporal characters,” Ogata wrote excitedly in the letter, in full agreement with Pettenkofer’s epidemiology emphasizing region-specific conditions, “it will benefit not just Munich, Germany, Europe, America, but also a really distanced yet blissfully nearby island nation, Japan.”25 Ogata was not simply praising what his teacher had achieved; rather, he was determined to apply what he had learned in Germany to the

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medical world in Japan. With a notable academic pedigree and corresponding scholarly achievement, Ogata assumed a teaching position at Tokyo Imperial University and simultaneously a researcher position with the Interior Department, a position that would enable him to implement what he had learned in Germany under Pettenkofer. The first task that Ogata wanted to tackle as a new returnee from the global centre of medical science was, in addition to his continued interest in cholera which he inherited from Pettenkofer, to find an etiological agent of kakke (beriberi), an ailment caused by vitamin B1 deficiency. As I will explain in the next section, the futile search for a non-existent bacteriological agent of this disease ended up inflicting unnecessary suffering and death upon Japanese soldiers and people. But before the broader societal harm, Ogata’s hasty conclusion and announcement to have found a culprit for beriberi first and foremost strained the otherwise amicable relationship between Ogata and Kitasato, and the whole incident eventually painted Kitasato as an ungrateful maverick in the Japanese medical world. In April 1885, the official gazette of the Japanese government contained a special article by Ogata on kakke, “Discovery of the Beriberi Bacillus.”26 In this lengthy scholarly announcement that was divided between two issues of the gazette (7 and 8 April), Ogata claimed that after working three months at the research lab for beriberi at the university, he had been successful in identifying and isolating a germ responsible for kakke. This monumental discovery, for which Ogata constantly sought advice from Pettenkofer, made an instantaneous splash in the Japanese medical world. His report was copied and republished in regional medical journals such as Hygiene Report [Eisei tsūhō] of Shimane Pre­fecture.27 Public lectures of massive scale were also organized on 14 and 20 April. According to Tokyo iji shinpō, the lecture of 4 April at the auditorium of Tokyo Imperial University attracted almost a thousand doctors and spectators on a rainy afternoon. The attendees included virtually all the luminaries of the Japanese medical world: Satō Susumu, Ishiguro Tadanori, Miyake Hiizu, Hashimoto Tsunatsune, Nagai Nagayoshi, and Ōsawa Kenji, to name a few.28 To these mostly German-educated doctors, Ogata seemed to confirm that the government money spent on sending medical students to Germany was paying off handsomely for the country. After all, it did not take long for Ogata to be promoted to be the first professor of hygiene at Tokyo Imperial University in 1886. It appeared that all was good with Ogata, and by extension with Tokyo Imperial University, at least until 1888.

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In 1888, Kitasato, who had been studying under Koch since January 1886, read a German medical journal that reported the alleged discovery of beriberi bacillus – one germ by Ogata and yet another by Cornelis Pekelharing, professor of pathology at the University of Utrecht, who had been commissioned by the Dutch government to study beriberi in Batavia. Upon the recommendation of Loefler, Kitasato analysed the findings of the two doctors and concluded that neither germ could have been responsible for beriberi.29 In addition to publishing this finding in German, Kitasato publicized his conclusion in Japanese in the January issue of Chūgai iji shinpō.30 In this 1889 memo, titled “Reading the Theory of the Kakke Bacillus of Mr. Ogata,” Kitasato made a scathing criticism of both Ogata’s methodology and conclusion: Unfortunately, the theory of Ogata does not hold together. Ogata claims that through the Gram staining method, he was able to identify a beriberi bacillus that is distinctive from the hitherto known bacteria, but unfortunately, there are many types of bacteria that are stained through the staining method, so it is not possible to say that it is a distinctive characteristic of what Ogata called a beriberi bacillus. Furthermore, Ogata talks about cultured bacteria, but it is of no use. He carried out animal experiments using only cultured bacteria, but not using blood and organs of actual beriberi patients is an egregious mistake. Because it is not possible to know just from this experiment whether the bacteria in beriberi patient blood and cultured bacteria will have the same pathogenics in the test animal. Likewise, it is not possible to know whether the cultured bacteria really derived from the bacteria in the blood. Finally, there is no need even to discuss the acidic reaction of beriberi patient blood to therapeutic measures against it.31

Kitasato’s criticism did not appear to violate the civility in scholarly disputation. Furthermore, fearing a misinterpretation of his argument, Kitasato made his intention clear in a complementary letter published in the same issue of the journal, Chugai iji shinpō. “If a theory is deemed false, it must be publicly criticized whether the scientists involved are father and son, brothers, teacher and student, or friends,” emphasized Kitasato. “This is a great responsibility for scientists … [To do otherwise] would reveal a spirit of servility counter to the spirit of scientific journals.”32 His noble intentions notwithstanding, Kitasato’s letter came across as impudent and arrogant, and Ogata and those around him took this

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as an unprovoked offence. Reading this article, Mori Rintarō criticized Kitasato for “prioritizing knowledge over human affection.”33 Similarly, Katō Hiroyuki (1836–1916), who started German studies in Japan and would become the president of Tokyo Imperial University in 1890, chastised Kitasato for “forsaking the way of the disciple.”34 Other doctors gossiped that Kitasato “threw mud at his own alma mater” or “drew a bow against his former teacher.”35 Why were they so quick to take this as a personal attack on Ogata rather than an engaging academic discussion? From his perspective, to be fair, Ogata had every reason to believe that he was betrayed, for Kitasato seemed to be breaking all the implicit norms of Japanese society. As a start, Ogata and Kitasato came from the same region, Kumamoto Prefecture in the southernmost island of Kyushu. In Meiji Japan, where previous domainal affinities of the Tokugawa era were still alive and well, this was a significant connection. Ogata and Kitasato were linked through schools as well. Although they were both born in 1853, Ogata was a senpai (a senior alumnus) to Kitasato; Ogata graduated Tokyo Imperial University in 1880, three years before Kitasato. Returning to Tokyo in 1884, Ogata had even hired Kitasato as one of his research assistants.36 Finally, when Kitasato departed Yokohama on 8 November 1885 to study in Germany, he was holding a letter of recommendation that Ogata had written on his behalf.37 To further support Kitasato’s study in Germany, in a letter sent to Pettenkofer on 16 November, Ogata also entreated his former teacher to take care of Kitasato if he came to Munich.38 In other words, to Ogata and his supporters (mostly at Tokyo Imperial University), Kitasato was nothing more than an ungrateful junior alumnus, if not a traitor, who did not show any sign of moderation. On the surface level, there is little difference between the embarrassment that Ogata must have suffered from Kitasato’s criticism and the humiliation that Pettenkofer would experience from the acerbic comments of Koch in 1892. It is one of the facts of academic life that newer scholars make their name by criticizing more established ones. But there was a key difference between the experience of Pettenkofer and that of his student, “Japan’s Pettenkofer.” In 1892, with the Imperial Health Office (Reichsgesundheitsamt) of Germany now allied with Koch, Pettenkofer, who had been instrumental in the formative years of the office, was now without any academic or bureaucratic muscles to rally against his younger opponent. According to Richard Evans, as early as 1893, Pettenkofer and his clan were described as “completely

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isolated in the medical profession.”39 The sense of being sidelined in the academic world also took a toll on Pettenkofer’s health, which ended in tragedy on 10 January 1901, when he took his own life.40 The situation in Japan, however, was different. Unlike his teacher, who was essentially removed from academia, Ogata had all the powerful doctors of Tokyo Imperial University behind him, ready to lend their hands in systematically ostracizing Kitasato from the medical world. The first confrontation between Kitasato and the Tokyo “faction” was about the job that Kitasato would take in Japan. On 28 May 1892, Kitasato returned from his almost seven years of study in Germany. Having obtained a German professorship, Kitasato received a couple of job offers in the United States, but in part because he was a governmental stipend recipient and in part because he was determined to improve the medical condition of Japan, Kitasato decided to apply his knowledge in his homeland. There was no doubt that Kitasato was a topflight researcher with international fame, a rarity in Japan, but it was clear to both Kitasato and those at Tokyo Imperial University that Kitasato would not seek employment at his alma mater, even when it was offered to him. What Kitasato envisioned creating in Japan instead was a Japanese version of Koch’s Institute for Infectious Diseases (Preußisches Institut für Infektionskrankheiten), which opened its doors in July of 1891. Unlike Koch’s Institute, which took the form of a publicly funded research institution of the Prussian state, however, Kitasato wanted to create an institute with private support, which he believed would guarantee research autonomy. Kitasato’s dream was realized in September of 1892 with the explicit support of Nagayo Sensai, a mastermind of the Japanese public health system; Fukuzawa Yukichi, a founding father of Meiji enlightenment; and Gotō Shinpei, the originator of scientific colonialism in Taiwan. It did not take long, however, for Kitasato and his supporters to realize that without state subsidy, the private institute would dwindle in size and significance.41 After much heated debate and discussion, the Japanese government eventually decided to fund the institute in 1893, but the state funding was tantamount to opening a can of worms. As Kitasato feared, governmental subsidy meant governmental intervention, which ultimately meant the increasing influence of Tokyo Imperial University. The next twenty years were thus a period of juggling for Kitasato to keep a balance between too much state involvement and too little, a bureaucratic battle he eventually lost. From 1899, the institute came

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increasingly under the direct control of the bureaucratic organizations of the state. In that year, the Ministry of Home Affairs took control of the institute until the Ministry of Education took the reins in 1914. Finally, in 1916, much to the chagrin of Kitasato and his followers, the institute became a branch organization of Tokyo Imperial University, the last place Kitasato would have agreed to have his institute housed, with Aoyama Tanemichi as the new director of the institute. Now without his own institutional home, Kitasato had to create another one, and even his own medical school in the form of the Medical Faculty of Keio University.42 And as Shiyung Liu superbly illustrates in his article “Ripples of Rivalry,” Kitasato’s students, now excluded from the mainstream Japanese medical world, were forced to take positions outside the Japanese archipelago: Korea, Taiwan, and Manchuria, thus inadvertently becoming the torchbearers of Japanese colonial medicine.43 Of course, the Tokyo “faction” was not simply a group of conspirators trying to politically ostracize Kitasato and his students; they were scientists as well, and they tried to prove their scientific prowess through academic measures. The pivotal opportunity to reclaim their existential worth came in 1894. The outbreak of bubonic plague in Hong Kong in 1894 has often been discussed in the context of the unstoppable victory of bacteriology as a medical discipline,44 and here the competition between Kitasato and Alexandre Yersin (1863–1943), a member of the French Colonial Health Service, in their pursuits of the discovery of the plague bacillus has attracted the most attention. What has often been forgotten under the shadow of Kitasato is that Aoyama Tanemichi, a scion of Erwin Baelz and a key figure in the Tokyo faction, was cohead of the plague research team that the Meiji government expeditiously dispatched to Hong Kong to study bubonic plague and its etiological agent. The academic pursuit of the Tokyo faction, however, quickly turned into yet another chapter in the personal and academic feud between Kitasato and his colleagues in Tokyo that further antagonized and exacerbated their relationship. As the news of the severe plague outbreak reached Japan in early May 1894, the Japanese government quickly organized a scientific expedition team of six members headed by two well-known physicians: Kitasato was tasked to isolate the bacteriological agent, while Aoyama was assigned to study clinical and anatomical aspects of patients and the epidemic disease. Arriving in Hong Kong on 12 June, both doctors immediately got to work with the help of Dr James A. Lowson (1866– 1935), a British doctor. Two days later, on 14 June, Kitasato reported that

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he was successful in identifying and isolating the plague bacillus, a story that Lowson immediately cabled to The Lancet, the authoritative medical journal in England.45 While Kitasato was about to make yet another big splash in the medical world after his work on the tetanus bacillus in 1889, bad luck struck Aoyama. Contracting the very disease he was there to study, Aoyama was incapacitated from 28 June and bedridden for well over a month until 10 August. By the time he had fully (and miraculously) recovered from the plague, he had only about two weeks remaining to wrap up his research until he returned to Japan on 31 August. During those two weeks, Aoyama did manage to study and dissect nineteen casualties of the plague, and based upon this research, he published an article in Chūgai iji shinpō in 189546 and subsequently an expanded version in German in the Mittheilungen of Tokyo Imperial University in 1897.47 In the lengthy German version of the article, “On the Plague in Hong Kong in 1894” (Ueber die Pestepidemie in Hong-kong im Jahre 1894), Aoyama covered almost all aspects of the plague outbreak, from the topology and demographic composition of the region to the history of plague in China, to clinical observations of forty-eight patients. But the real intention of the report was to become a self-appointed judge in the global dispute over the first discoverer of the plague bacillus. As is well known, Yersin discovered the plague bacillus independently from Kitasato and announced his finding through his colleague in France on 30 July.48 Without doubt, scientists and doctors around the world were keen on knowing the first real discoverer of the bacillus that had claimed millions of lives in human history. “I will discuss below whether the bacilli of the two researchers are the same or different and add my opinion of the bacteria, which I gained by section staining organs, particularly the lymph nodes,” wrote Aoyama.49 Not surprisingly, his verdict leaned against his own compatriot. “Based upon the experiment, the data of the two researchers are different,” Aoyama announced. “With Yersin, each and every time after vaccination, the neighbouring lymph glands became swollen, whereas with Kitasato, the swelling of the lymph glands was irregular.”50 Ogata Masanori, waiting for his own moment of revenge, also lent his support to Aoyama in favouring Yersin over Kitasato. In November 1896, Ogata was dispatched by the Japanese government to study another plague outbreak, this time in Formosa (Taiwan). In his article “On the Plague in Formosa” (Ueber die Pestepidemie in Formosa) published on 18 March 1897, Ogata categorically announced that Kitasato was wrong, much in the same way that Kitasato had issued a verdict against

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Japanese medical doctors in Berlin in 1903. Sitting at the centre in the middle row is Aoyama Tanemichi. Ost-Asien 68 (1903): 339.

him in 1889. “My observations so far on bacilli that are cultured from plague patients, plague cadavers and plague rats, pathogenic for mice, rats, guinea pigs, rabbits and cats, and refractory to dogs, chickens and pigeons match, on the whole in form, culture, and pathogenicity, to the plague bacillus of Yersin, not to that of Kitasato.”51 Ogata further elaborated on his argument by adding that his finding not only coincided with what Aoyama had discovered earlier in Hong Kong, but was also corroborated by what Okada Kunitarō (1861–1945), another Germaneducated bacteriologist, uncovered in Anping, China, in 1896. “The main result of studies [of Okada] on the morphology and pathogenic properties of bacillus matches the plague bacillus of Yersin, but not the bacillus of Kitasato.”52 While it may be far-fetched to argue that Aoyama and Ogata were acting solely out of their malevolent desire to besmear their compatriot, it would also be naive to assume that they were just full of amiable intentions to further scientific understanding of the plague. What is certain

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is that their scholarly endeavours from 1894 to 1896, which were proved correct almost a hundred years later with the affirmation of Yersin as the sole discoverer of the now officially named Yersinia pestis, further strained their already frosty relationship with Kitasato. The strangely apathetic reception of Koch among the Tokyo faction in 1908 was therefore a reflection of this long history of mutual competition and accompanying antagonism. Using the tug-of-war between “Japan’s Pettenkofer” and “Japan’s Koch” that was as much personal as it was academic, I have demonstrated that the world of German-educated doctors in Japan was anything but homogeneous. Passionate about their research and convinced that their German advisers were superior, Ogata and Kitasato increasingly became proxies of their respective German teachers, fiercely clashing with each other to become the leading bacteriologist in Japan. While it is significant to recognize the existence of the Tokyo faction and the Kitasato faction and the severe competition between them, we should not discount the existence of internal cohesion and the possibility of collaboration among the Japanese doctors of German educational pedigree. Juxtaposed with other groups of Japanese physicians who were educated mostly in England or who did not have a chance to study abroad, and seen from the view of these “outsiders,” German-educated Japanese bacteriologists and hygienists were mostly homogeneous and differences among them were negligible at most. In terms of research methodology, even Ogata, the staunchest representative of Pettenkoferian bacteriology in Japan, was difficult to differentiate from Koch. Similarly, as Oberländer reminds us, “being a bacteriologist himself, Kitasato did not explicitly doubt that the cause of beriberi was a germ; he only questioned that Ogata’s ‘beriberi bacillus’ was that germ.”53 When this conviction that the cause of beriberi was a germ, a clear reflection of the growing domination of German-originated bacteriological thinking in Japan, was joined by the insurmountable power and authority of Tokyo Imperial University and the Imperial army, the result was sheer disaster for the Japanese people. The next section of this chapter reconstructs a fatal example of the collusion of academic power and misplaced scientific conviction. Hubris of German Bacteriology: Beriberi Controversy Koch’s visit to Japan in 1908 was primarily to get some rest and satisfy his curiosity about a remote island nation in the Far East. “My long-held

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wish to see Japan has finally been granted,” wrote Koch to his daughter in Germany. “We have been travelling in Wonderland for almost two months and every day there has been something new, beautiful, and interesting to see.”54 Acting mostly as a tourist, Koch was trying very hard to avoid any unnecessary academic engagements. But as the icon of modern bacteriology, there were meetings and lectures that he simply could not refuse. The public lecture on sleep sickness that Koch delivered on 16 June to an audience of 1400 people was one such event, and a closed meeting with Kitasato, Aoyama, and Mori Rintarō (Ōgai) on 22 June in Koch’s room at the Imperial Hotel near the Imperial Palace was another. Readers should now be familiar with these three public faces of German medicine in Japan, each representing the most powerful institutions and factions of medical science. Kitasato was synonymous with German bacteriology. Aoyama, a domineering person whose character led to the joke “It’s not Aoyama of Tokyo Imperial University, but Tokyo Imperial University of Aoyama,”55 represented Tokyo Imperial University and its entrenched interest in German medicine. Mori Rintarō, surgeon general of the army, was the highest-ranking doctor within the Japanese Imperial army. As we saw in the preceding section of this chapter, these three doctors were competing among themselves to the ultimate exclusion of Kitasato in the form of the 1916 annexation of his Institute of Infectious Diseases as an affiliated institution of Tokyo Imperial University, with Aoyama as the new director. But there were more commonalities to these medical leaders than their apparent discord and antagonism might indicate. First of all, they belonged to the same cohort – the second generation of Japanese physicians who studied in Germany. Although Kitasato (born in 1853) was bit older than Aoyama (1859) and Mori (1862), he started medical school late, entering Tokyo Medical School in 1875, two years later than Aoyama (1873) and one year later than Mori (1874). What this means is that they graduated roughly around the same time (Mori in 1881, Aoyama in 1882, and Kitasato in 1883), having spent at least six formative (and overlapping) years from 1875 to 1881 together as medical students in Tokyo. Furthermore, they all departed to Germany in close succession (Aoyama in 1883, Mori in 1884, and Kitasato in 1885) and could be found studying, hanging out, and helping each other in Berlin. Along with this common identity and experience, these Japanese physicians shared a firm conviction that bacteriology held the key to most pressing medical concerns of the time.

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It is based upon this shared belief that these three physicians knocked on the door of Koch’s room at the Imperial Hotel on 22 June. What was vexing and frustrating to them was their failed search for an etiological pathogen of beriberi. To the extent that a German doctor in Tokyo, Agathon Wernich, referred to it as the “national disease” of Japan as early as 1878,56 beriberi had been causing havoc in Japan for decades until it was finally determined and accepted to be an acute disease caused by a vitamin B (thiamine) deficiency in 1926. Especially disconcerting and alarming to the leaders of Meiji Japan was that beriberi attenuated the military capabilities of the Japanese Imperial army. During the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–5, to cite one example, the Imperial army lost 1860 to beriberi, second only to cholera, which took 5211 soldiers. But the real cost of beriberi, in contrast to the more lethal and potent cholera, was its chronic debilitating symptoms – lassitude, tenderness of the calf muscles, increasing loss of sensation, and shortness of breath57 – that significantly hampered the military capacity of over 30,000 Japanese soldiers inflicted with it.58 To make matters worse, it was not just the military that suffered horrendously from beriberi. The other pillar of the modern nation-state, Japanese workers, suffered as well. Between 1899 and 1901, approximately 265,000 Japanese workers developed beriberi. By 1907, as historian Alexander Bay tells us, “on the battlefield, beriberi hospitalized more than 250,000 soldiers, and on the home front, it resulted in the loss of millions of workdays.”59 What these Japanese doctors hoped to find on this day, therefore, was a clue and direction from the master of their discipline, as well as authoritative confirmation that beriberi was indeed an infectious disease. At his meeting with these disciples of German medicine, Koch told them exactly what they wanted to hear; he cautiously argued that beriberi was an infectious disease, although a beriberi germ had not been discovered and told them that the Japanese military needed to dispatch a commission to research beriberi in Batavia, where a similar outbreak was rampant.60 Mori of course took this advice seriously and, in consultation with the Beriberi Research Commission that had been created earlier in 1908, sent to Batavia in late 1908 a team of three doctors, each representing the three participants of the original meeting – Shibayama Gorōsaku (1871–1913, assistant at Kitasato’s Institute of Infectious Disease), Miyamoto Hajime (1867–1919, who went to Hong Kong with Aoyama in 1894), and Tsuzuki Jinnosuke (1869–1933, an army doctor).61 This ambitious expedition, however, ended in disappointment, which is not at all surprising, since these third-generation German-educated

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physicians (both Miyamoto and Tsuzuki had studied in Germany) were searching for “something” that was non-existent. “For beriberi, there should be a causal agent etowasu [エトワス],” concluded the three doctors in their final reports using the Japanese transliteration of the German word etwas, literally meaning something. “If this etowasu is not present … beriberi will not occur.”62 This is but one example of the agonizing stories of obstinate adherence to bacteriology as the cause of beriberi in spite of all the signs otherwise. As I will describe in this section, combined with the shameless elitism of German-educated Japanese doctors, the resultant ceaseless (and futile) search for a non-existent germ (or “something”) was to squander precious time and resources with significant human collateral damage. According to Japanese historian Yamashita Seizō, who published extensively on the history of beriberi in Japan, the initial belief that beriberi was an infectious disease originated from none other than Erwin Baelz.63 Earlier in this chapter, I mentioned that Baelz was a subscriber to cellular pathology à la Rudolf Virchow, but when it came to the etiological exploration of beriberi, Baelz believed in the bacteriological explanation. As early as 1881, based upon his study of his own patients inflicted with beriberi, Baelz, in tandem with another German doctor in Japan, Heinrich Botho Scheube, started to propagate his bacteriological theory,64 and he staunchly adhered to it well into the early 1900s, when there was plenty of clinical evidence against the germ theory. In his article “Beriberi oder Kakke, Polyneuritis endemica,” published in Leipzig in 1905, to name one example, Baelz essentially prescribed what the Batavia expedition team would reiterate later in 1908:65 Although we have to admit that up to now no one, not even such experienced researchers as Robert Koch, has identified the specific beriberi pathogen, we still believe that there is one, and, just as other scholars have anticipated, we expect that the specific pathogen produces toxins, which then poison nerves and muscles and create degenerative inflammation.66

What was unfortunate for the Japanese medical community was that Baelz’s quasi-religious etiology of beriberi was taken very seriously owing to his prominent position at Tokyo Imperial University. As I argued in an earlier chapter of this book, Baelz felt increasingly sidelined institutionally with the addition of the Japanese returnees from Germany as new faculty members at Tokyo Imperial University, but his enduring

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influence on multiple generations of medical students cannot be underestimated, a point that another historian has also corroborated.67 What was even more unfortunate for Japan as a whole was that Baelz’s influence was not limited to the confines of Tokyo Imperial University. Instead, his medical ideas held sway even among the doctors in the Army Medical Corps, who were directly responsible for the well-being of Japanese soldiers. The reason for Baelz’s aggrandized influence was intimately intertwined with the Army Medical Corps’ 1871 creation. When Matsumoto Jun (1832–1907) was recruited by Yamagata Aritomo, one of the leaders of the Meiji Restoration and later war minister, to build a medical bureau within the fledgling army, he was baffled and dismayed at the scanty number of Japanese doctors trained in Western medicine. For a practical reason, there was only one viable option in 1871 that could continue to supply an adequate number of welltrained doctors to the army – Tokyo Medical School, the predecessor of the Medical Faculty of Tokyo Imperial University.68 Up until 1886, when the army installed its own medical school [Rikugun gun’i gakkō], graduates of Tokyo Medical School who learned from German teachers and German-educated Japanese doctors dominated the Army Medical Corps; even after 1886, the upper echelon of army doctors was predominantly recruited from Tokyo Imperial University. What this means is that by the end of the 1880s, a strong and enduring alliance of German medicine between Tokyo Imperial University and the Army Medical Corps was firmly in place; top graduates of the university were recruited to the army, then sent to Germany on the army’s dime, and then expected to return to take top positions within the Army Medical Corps. Ishiguro Tadanori (1845–1941), Hashimoto Tsunatsune (1845–1909), and Mori Rintarō were all prime examples of this cartel of German medicine. While the Army Medical Corps was under the spell of German medicine, the navy took a consciously different path, and this difference eventually had a significant impact on the research into beriberi. In 1873, independent of the Tokyo Medical School, the navy, which had adopted the British example for its institutional model, set up its own school of medical education, the Naval Hospital School (kaigun byōin gakusha), which was attached to the navy hospital. William Anderson, a British doctor, taught at the school for seven years (1873–80). Reflecting the contemporary British convention of medical education, Anderson paid more attention to clinical and bedside teaching than to laboratory research, an emblematic feature of German medicine. Anderson’s instruction, primarily in English, created an entirely different brand

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of physicians than those of Tokyo Medical School and, by extension, of the Army Medical Corps.69 Takaki Kanehiro (1849–1920), a naval doctor, was the most exemplary figure of this British-style medical education in Japan. Entering the navy in 1872, Takaki became a student of Anderson in 1873. Two years later, in 1875, he was given an opportunity to study medicine in Europe and, at the behest of his teacher, went to Anderson’s alma mater in London, St Thomas’s Hospital Medical School. Upon returning to Japan in 1880, Takaki was speedily promoted to the most significant positions within the Navy Medical Corps in short order: the chief of the Navy Hospital in 1880; the director of the Navy Medical Bureau in 1883; and, finally, the navy surgeon general in 1885.70 What prompted this series of speedy promotions was of course Takaki’s strenuous effort to better the medical condition of the Imperial Navy. Upon returning to Japan, this ambitious thirty-one-year-old naval physician lost no time in researching beriberi, which had been severely undermining the military capabilities of the navy. What Takaki, who was regarded as synonymous with the beriberi research of the navy by contemporary observers,71 identified as the causal factor of beriberi was strikingly different from that of Tokyo Imperial University and of the army. As a naval surgeon, Takaki noticed that there were wide-ranging differences in the number of patients on different warships and tried to figure out contributing factors to this statistical variation. Takaki patiently started to analyse the correlation between the outbreak of beriberi and environmental conditions – clothing, living quarters, atmospheric temperature, and workload – but could not find any meaningful connection. Eliminating irrelevant factors, Takaki then learned of the crucial differences in the outbreak rates among different ranks of sailors; while almost no officers who consumed a Westernstyle diet contracted beriberi, the number of patients increased dramatically among ordinary sailors and even more so among prisoners, who ate only polished rice. From this, Takaki surmised that quality of food might be the deciding factor. His idea of the dietary causation of beriberi was, however, still conjecture at this stage, so Takaki tried to prove his case through comparative experiments – two naval training ships with the same sailing routes, the same number of sailors, and in the same season, but with different dietary rations. He already had a first case. The training ship Ryūjō, which sailed from Japan on 5 December 1882 to Hawaii via New Zealand and Chile, came back to Japan on 15 October 1883 with

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169 beriberi patients out of 370 sailors.72 What Takaki needed to do was to duplicate the trip of the Ryūjō. After much bargaining with navy leaders, Takaki was allowed to change the rations of another training ship, the Tsukuba, that was set to sail on 2 February 1884, from polished rice to plenty of meat, wheat flour, beans, and vegetables, a change that would increase the ratio of proteins to carbohydrates. Nine months later, when the Tsukuba returned on 16 November from a journey identical to the Ryūjō’s path, Takaki was relieved to know that not a single case of beriberi had been contracted.73 Based upon this comparative experiment, Takaki campaigned to change the ration system of the entire navy. The result was immediate and dramatic. In 1882, there were 404 cases of beriberi for every 1000 sailors. The number dropped to 231 in 1883, 127 in 1884, 6 in 1885, and eventually 0.4 in 1886.74 Despite this indisputable clinical success, Takaki’s discovery that beriberi was coming from an imbalance between protein and carbohydrate intake came under attack from doctors of Tokyo Imperial University and the army. Their main criticism was that Takaki’s idea was too simplistic to elucidate the cause of beriberi. Ishiguro Tadanori curtly retorted: “Rice has been the main staple of our people for thousands of years. If there is a toxin in rice, why is only a small percentage of the Japanese people, not the majority, inflicted with beriberi? Why more men, fewer women? Why men between twenty and thirty, not those of over forty? Why only those students and soldiers around the age of twenty who live in dormitories and barracks?”75 Similarly, Ōsawa Kenji (1852–1927), professor of physiology at Tokyo Imperial University, who had also studied in Germany, retorted that all Takaki could prove was that diet imbalance increased susceptibility to germs and infections, not the actual agent of beriberi.76 Ogata Masanori, a faithful pupil of Pettenkofer, was simply puzzled by the assertion that diet should affect the susceptibility of diseases, a commonsensical premise of Pettenkoferian bacteriology. All these criticisms appear scientific and scholarly, but it should be clear that these German-educated doctors harboured thinly veiled contempt for the seemingly unscientific and amateurish approach of the British-educated physician. To the doctors in the army and at Tokyo Imperial University, Takaki’s refutation “since the prophylaxis of beriberi has been established, it is hardly necessary to proceed further and investigate its cause”77 sounded like a confession of his failure and sloppiness. Ogata’s letter to Pettenkofer on 20 May 1885 after his alleged discovery of the beriberi bacillus clearly reveals the hubris of the

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German-trained bacteriologist of Tokyo Imperial University. Informing his teacher of the great success that he had in announcing his discovery in a public lecture in Tokyo with a packed audience of more than three hundred high-profile doctors, Ogata wrote: After my first lecture, it was hilarious [komisch] when a Surgeon General who had studied in England for a long time and for the last six years has engaged himself with the etiology of beriberi responded to me. He has a view that beriberi arises only through improper diet … In my lecture, I strongly attacked his work … and mentioned that the improvement of diet may function as prophylactic, but it is not a direct cause. When he criticized my work (lecture), he was enraged and with strong emotion spoke a lot of nonsense, an action that cost him his high respectability. Until now, no one criticized his work, though no one believed in it, because he has been considered as very influential and of high esteem.78

Not even bothering to mention the name of his opponent to his teacher in Germany, Ogata caricatured Takaki as a hot-tempered, undeserving, and unscientific imbecile who degraded the academic lecture and subsequent discussion into a comedy scene. This haughty elitism was shared by the prodigy of the army, Mori Rintarō, who graduated from Tokyo Imperial University at the record age of nineteen as a fully qualified physician. According to Mori, there were five ranks of licensed doctors in Japan in the late 1880s. At the bottom of the pyramid of the 40,000 doctors were previous practitioners of traditional Japanese medicine (kōkan’i) who constituted the vast majority (30,000). Next were three different tiers that Mori pejoratively designated as “improvised doctors” (hōben’i), “shortcut takers” (syōkei’i), and “crash course takers” (sokusei’i), who acquired their licences using various shortcuts that the Meiji government had installed to produce an adequate number of doctors as expeditiously as possible. Dominating all these less qualified doctors were what Mori called “real doctors” (shin’i), roughly 250 graduates of Tokyo Imperial University,79 the sole bearers of true medical science in Japan. It is upon this idea of the hierarchical categorization of “real doctors” and “fake doctors” that in 1890, and again in 1893, Mori vehemently opposed the plan of convening a national conference of Japanese medical doctors [nihon igakkai] with the initiative of Itsuyūkai, an association of physicians where Takaki took a leading role. According to Mori, “an academic conference should be organized only by those who have

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scholarly achievements.” In his view, the event that occurred in 1890 with 2000 participants was not a conference; it was merely an instructional meeting because there was no “advancement of science,” but just “exchange and transfer of knowledge” from those who possessed knowledge to those who did not. In short, Mori believed that it was pointless to have a conference in Japan because the level of participants was too low.80 What, then, was the real medical science that Mori envisioned to be the job of a “real doctor”? Mori firmly believed that “experimental induction, using microscope and microtome, is the highest art for producing scientific knowledge.”81 Based upon this criteria, Takaki was failing on two counts – because he never attended Tokyo Imperial University, he was not a “real doctor,” and his scholarly activities did not go beyond the level of statistical compilations. What was rather preposterous, however, is that Mori himself did not do much “real” experimenting when it came to the etiological study of beriberi. In his articles written in German, “Studies on the Diet of Japanese Soldiers” (Untersuchungen über die Kost der japanischen Soldaten, 1886) and “On the Dietary Issue in Japan” (Zur Nahrungsfrage in Japan, 1887), Mori tried to dispute Takaki’s claim by arguing that the Japanese people were ingesting an adequate amount of protein. What was hypocritical of Mori was that he did not conduct any experiments to reach his conclusion; instead, he relied exclusively on research results compiled by scholars such as Carl von Voit (1831–1903) and Eduard Friedrich Wilhelm Pflüger (1829–1910), German scholars that Mori deemed reliable and excellent.82 In other words, as historian Matsuda Makoto aptly wrote, “Mori was interested only in explaining the problem at hand by relying upon an authority, not in making sure that the explanation will indeed solve the said problem.”83 And not surprisingly, Mori, like his colleagues, found the authority only in Germany. The unwavering belief in the infallibility of bacteriology shared by the German-educated doctors of Tokyo Imperial University made sure that Takaki’s dietary theory on beriberi stayed outside mainstream academic discourse for over a generation. Only in the late 1910s, when it became almost impossible to theoretically disprove the dietary origin of beriberi, did doctors at Tokyo Imperial University and in the Army Medical Corps begrudgingly accept its true etiology. The process, however, was not gentlemanly. It was only through what historian Alexander Bay calls “an act of recolonization”84 – acting as if they had known the dietary origin of beriberi all along and were just trying to prove it through

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their own (repetitive) case studies. But the damage had already been done – while the navy did not suffer any beriberi outbreaks during the Sino-Japanese War or the Russo-Japanese War, the army could not escape its curse. Conclusion On 24 August 1908, Koch and his wife Hedwig boarded the steamship Empress of India, bound for Vancouver, at Yokohama Port. Just as was the case with their arrival in Japan, their departure was also celebrated by several hundred Japanese spectators.85 The Kochs had originally intended to return to Germany by way of China and India, but their world tour had to be cut short due to an urgent request from the German government, entreating Koch to attend the International Tuberculosis Congress in Washington, DC, as an official delegate. “My plan to go around the world has come to naught and I still have to make another stab at this later,” wrote Koch to his daughter in Berlin on 12 August. “Despite this disappointment, the trip has been very valuable. I have seen Japan, which is, to me, one of the most beautiful and interesting countries in the world.”86 The degree of Koch’s adoration of Japan was probably closely matched by the appreciation of the Japanese people for his contributions to bacteriology and its influence on their lives. As William Johnston shows us, Koch’s discovery of tubercle bacillus in 1882 and subsequent invention of tuberculin in 1890 provided a theoretical and practical platform for the Japanese who, though slow in accepting the theory and even slower in implementing related measures, relied upon Koch’s idea to eventually overcome this “modern epidemic” that accounted for more than 5 per cent of the total number of deaths in the 1890s.87 Likewise, as Ruth Rogaski tells us, Koch’s emphasis on prevention, surveillance, isolation, and disinfection prepared the Japanese army to fight against the plague outbreak in Tianjin, where Japan had a concession along with other European powers.88 In other words, even the “Japanese management of germs” in China owed a great deal to Koch and his bacteriology that Japan diligently absorbed and applied. Lesser-known episodes of the Kochs’ visit to Japan, however, poignantly reveal that the triumph of bacteriology is just part of the whole story. Hidden beneath the surface of the enthusiastic reception was the brewing tension between the different camps of the followers of German medicine in Japan, who did not shy away from impersonating

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their German teachers. Likewise, one can learn that a headlong infatuation with the world of microbes among the faithful disciples of German medicine who were steeped in a sea of elitism directly and indirectly contributed to the unnecessary deaths of tens of thousands of Japanese soldiers and workers from beriberi at home and abroad. In other words, in discussing the German influence on the development of modern medicine in Japan, this chapter has shown that German medicine and what it represented was not always beneficial to the Japanese people. Just as it had promises, it also had perils.

Epilogue

Fatal Affinities? The Long-Term Legacies of German–Japanese Medical Relations

The First World War, which demarcated the “long” nineteenth century from the “short” twentieth century in European history, functioned as a watershed in the interactions between German and Japanese physicians as well. At the outbreak of the Great War, on 23 August 1914, Japan decided to enter the fray against Germany by aligning with the British and subsequently took over Germany’s Pacific islands and leased territories in China’s Shandong Peninsula. This adamant action by the Japanese naturally infuriated the German population, and German newspapers published almost daily invectives against Japanese infidelity. The most immediate victims of the military conflict in East Asia were Japanese students in Germany. Five hundred thirty-four Japanese in Germany – most of them students – were ordered to leave the country promptly via Lindau to neutral Switzerland, while those students who were suspected of knowing “too much” about German technology and science were arrested and subsequently interned.1 Essentially, the mutual attraction that existed between Germany and Japan, based on the German push factor (their imperial ambitions in East Asia) and the Japanese pull factor (the desire to appropriate cutting-edge German knowledge to modernize itself), was crumbling rapidly amidst the flames of the First World War. From the mid-range perspective, the deteriorating relationship between Germany and Japan that was accelerated by hostilities of the First World War was the culmination of a process already in full swing by the last two decades of the nineteenth century. By 1905, the last great German medical professors in Japan, Erwin Baelz and Julius Scriba, were gone; Scriba passed away on 3 January 1905 after leaving Tokyo Imperial University in September of 1901, and Baelz left for Germany

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on 6 June 1905. At this point, the Japanese government had finished replacing German medical faculty with Japanese physicians who had been educated in Germany. On the other side of the globe, Japanese medical students in Germany experienced a rise in anti-foreign sen­ timents in the medical faculties of German universities. From around the 1880s, although especially from the turn of the twentieth century, foreign medical students flooded German universities on a hitherto unprecedented scale. Most of them were Russian Jews who were not allowed to attend medical schools in Russia or anywhere else in Europe. Combined with increasing anti-Semitic fervour, anti-Russian and antiforeign sentiment enveloped German universities from Königsberg via Berlin to Munich. Though not a target of direct attacks, Japanese medical students became subject to increasing pressure from their German counterparts. In sum, the tide was already turning against the Japanese medical students in Germany even before the outbreak of the First World War. However, from a long-term perspective, the changes in the relationship between Germany and Japan prior to the First World War reflected more a temporary breach in a close relationship than a definitive breakdown in links between the two countries. Beginning in the early 1920s, there was a strenuous effort from the Japanese – to a lesser extent from the Germans as well – to put their “friendly” relationship back on track, and thus commenced a series of interactions between Germany and Japan in the field of medical science during the 1930s and the first half of the 1940s. For instance, the Japanese-German Medical Society (Nichidoku Igaku Kyōkai) was established by two Germanophile Japanese physicians, Ishibashi Chōei and Hisada Tetsuo, in 1936.2 The real rupture and change of allegiances in this respect came only in the hot and humid summer of 1945, when Nihon iji shinpō, the most popular journal among the Japanese medical community, surreptitiously dropped its German title, Japanische Medizinische Wochenschrift, in favour of an English-language title, Japanese Medical Journal. What conclusions, then, can be drawn from the flowering years of German–Japanese relations in the field of medical science and education between 1870 and 1914? What are the legacies of these exchanges in modern Germany and Japan? In answering these questions, it is important to first recognize that the relationship between Germany and Japan was an asymmetrical one rather than one of “mutual indebtedness,” as some historians would argue.3 Although the exchanges between these two countries were truly bidirectional, the actual impact

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of the exchanges was disproportionate, reflecting the perceived – and to a certain extent, actual – hierarchical positions that Germany and Japan occupied in the context of global modernity. Essentially, the direct impact on Germany (or German culture) of the German physicians who spent time in Japan or of Japanese physicians who sojourned in Germany, was rather limited, while the influence on the medicalization of Japanese society, both in Japan proper and in the colonies, by the Japanese physicians who were educated by German teachers both in Japan and Germany was profound. Conscious of the notable discrepancy in the degree of influence on German and Japanese society and culture respectively, this epilogue deals specifically with the following issues of the relationship in the field of medical science and education between Germany and Japan: the activities of German-educated doctors in Japan’s colonies; the issue of racial science; the separation of research from clinical treatment; the close networking of Japanese physicians with government officials and soldiers; the latent affinity between German and Japanese physicians throughout the 1910s and 1920s; and, finally, the question of missed opportunities for German ambitions in East Asia. The Legacies of German–Japanese Medical Relations As discussed in chapter 3 of this book, as many as 1150 Japanese medical students studied in Germany between 1865 and 1914. Combining that number with the number of Tokyo Imperial University Faculty of Medicine alumni, there were nearly 3000 Japanese physicians who were directly baptized with the waters of German medical science. If one were then to add those Japanese physicians who diligently read the clinical manuals written by German physicians such as Müller and Hoffmann as indirect receptors of German medical science during the second half of the nineteenth century, one can rightly claim that German medicine had a near monopoly in the field of medical science and education in Meiji Japan. The predominance of German medicine in Japan in turn meant that it had broader impacts in Taiwan, Korea, and China too as Japan expanded territorially. With the expansion of the fledgling Japanese empire, German-educated Japanese doctors filled medical positions throughout the Japanese colonies. With Gotō Shinpei at the top, Taiwan became a laboratory for German-educated Japanese doctors to practise “Japa­ nized Staatsmedizin” as Shiyung Liu recently illustrated.4 Korea also

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became a destination for Japanese doctors thoroughly educated in the tradition of German medical science. As one key example, the two most significant imperial doctors in colonial Korea were both Germaneducated Japanese elite doctors. Satō Susumu, whose creative language-acquisition skill we covered in chapter 4 of this book, became the founding director and mastermind of Taehan Hospital (Taehan Ŭiwˇon in Korean and Taikan I’in in Japanese), the top-notch medical facility that Itō Hirobumi, the first resident-general of Korea, established in Seoul in 1907. As the colonial outpost of Japanese modern medicine that would control and improve the hygienic situation in Korea, Taehan Hospital was at once an infirmary, a teaching college, and a bureau of hygiene and sanitation – a showcase of Japan’s modern medical prowess.5 And Satō Susumu, who is often called the “Itō Hirobumi of medical science” by Korean scholars due to his willingness to use the art of healing for the sake of imperial expansion,6 did not hide his intention of using medical science both as a yardstick to measure the level of civilization in Korea and as leverage to expand Japan’s control there. Indeed, when he accepted the invitation of Itō in July 1906, the former army surgeon general claimed that Korea was lagging forty or even fifty years behind Japan, and that only with the guidance and help of Japan would Korea, in forty or fifty years, rise to become a civilized country in East Asia.7 While perhaps not as outspoken as Satō Susumu, Shiga Kiyoshi (1872–1957) was no different when the empire called upon his service. A renowned bacteriologist, Shiga made his name known in 1897 for his discovery of dysentery bacillus (which was named after him as Shigella Dysenteriae) and subsequently spent four years in Germany from 1901 to 1905 working with German immunologist Paul Ehrlich at the Insti­ tute for Experimental Therapy in Frankfurt.8 In 1920, Shiga was invited to serve as the head of the two most important governmental medical institutions in colonial Korea – the Government-General Hospital (Chōsen Sōtokufu I’in, the successor of Taehan Hospital from 1910) and Keijō Medical College (Keijō Igaku Senmon Gakkō). Five years later, in Decem­ ber 1925, Shiga was asked to chair the committee for establishing a medical faculty at Keijō Imperial University in Seoul, which had opened its doors in 1924 and where he would eventually become president in 1929.9 No stranger to German medicine, Shiga Kiyoshi comprehensively adopted the medical education system of Tokyo Imperial Univer­ sity, which as we learned earlier had been devised and enhanced by German doctors. The near dominance of German medicine in the development of modern medical science and education first in Japan and gradually in

Epilogue  153

Japan’s colonies should not, however, suggest that the Japanese “slavishly copied” German medical science as John Bowers has argued.10 After all, the Japanese were highly selective in their decision to adopt the principles and subfields of modern German medical science, strategically calculating their most imminent needs and conditions. One such example is the idea of race and its popularity in German and Japanese medical science. As I explicated in the chapter on the anthropological activities of German physicians in Japan, German doctors, especially Erwin Baelz, diligently studied the Japanese as a race from the 1880s, reflecting the racial turn in German medical and anthropological discourses. What is noteworthy, however, is that there was a significant time lag between the introduction of racial theory into Japan and the full embrace and deployment of that idea by Japanese anthropologists in the early 1900s. This temporal discrepancy can be explained by the changing global circumstances in which these doctors of empire found themselves. The late 1880s and early 1890s were the period of the “Yellow Peril” in Germany, where the vindication of the concept of race would only have perpetuated the perception of the racial inferiority of the Japanese people.11 Only when the Japanese could proudly claim that they had achieved equal status with the Western “white” powers – a time roughly corresponding with their victory in the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5 – and when they had confronted their own mission of empire building, did Japanese physicians genuinely turn their attention to the study of race. Once they did so, they quickly referred to the available racial discourses and research done by German physicians such as Baelz and their students.12 The enduring influence of German medicine was not just limited to providing readily available discourses on race and racial differences to the fledgling Japanese empire. On a fundamental level, the exchanges between Germany and Japan left indelible marks on Japanese medical science and education as well as on German–Japanese relations, at least until the first half of the twentieth century. First and foremost, it was under the influence of German medical science that Japanese medical science firmly separated research from clinical practice. As mentioned in chapter 2 of this book, the German physicians Müller and Hoffmann initiated this transformation in practice in the first modern medical institution in Japan, Tokyo Medical School. Subsequently, in their eager endeavour to catch up with German medical science, the Japanese government venerated the practice of medical research based on experimentation – mainly conducted by

154  Doctors of Empire

“regular” students at Tokyo University – while relegating the task of curing “ordinary” patients to those less-qualified “special” students of the university as well as students of the second-rate senmon-gakkō. As exemplified by the successful establishment of the community of bacteriologists surrounding Kitasato Shibasaburō, a positive consequence of this emphasis on research was that certain subfields of medical science rapidly developed to the extent that Japan could claim equal stature with Western countries, which led to the formation of a research tradition in the world of Japanese medical science. There existed, however, negative aspects as well: the veneration of research as “true science” led to a fixation on the power of research in and of itself, and not simply as a method to cure disease. The following excerpt from Mori Ōgai’s biographical novel Daydreams clearly evinces this trend occurring in the first decade of the twentieth century, a trend to which Mori himself was an unmistakable contributor. There is no atmosphere and so they gasp for air like divers working under high pressure. There is as yet no satisfactory Japanese equivalent for the word Forschung (research): proof that the right atmosphere does not exist. Society does not yet feel the need to express this concept with clarity. It is hardly anything to boast about, but I myself gave scientific worlds such coined words as gyōseki (results) and gakumon no suiban (encouragement of learning), yet there is still no simple, easy way of expressing the idea of Forschung in Japanese. The vague word kenkyū is not really appropriate. Mere reading and study of books is kenkyū, is it not?13

This obsessive attention to the research dimension of medical science often meant that the treatment of patients came only as a secondary consideration among Japanese physicians, and therefore patients were eventually marginalized in the treatment of their own diseases.14 This preoccupation with research also left its footprint in Japan’s colonies as doctors who saw research in laboratories as the heart of their academic pursuits flowed into colonial medical institutions. Again, the foundational role that Shiga Kiyoshi played in colonial Korea is especially illuminating, for he exemplifies the Kitasato faction that, according to historian Iijima Wataru, became the “the distribution center of Japanese colonial medicine.”15 As discussed in chapter 6 of this book, there was a fierce internal power struggle between the doctors of Tokyo Imperial University and those around Kitasato. This protracted turf war eventually ended as a defeat for Kitasato in 1914 when his Institute

Epilogue  155

for Infectious Disease was forcibly put under control of the Ministry of Education and subsequently under Tokyo Imperial University. As we saw, Kitasato managed to found his own institute and eventually, in 1920, the medical faculty of Keio University, but most of his protégés, including Shiga Kiyoshi, were pressured to find positions in Japan’s colonies to continue their bacteriological research, mostly on infectious and parasitic diseases. But the bitter taste of defeat did not necessarily mean that these “Kitasato doctors” harboured different attitudes towards research than did the doctors at Tokyo Imperial University. Although antagonistic towards each other, both the Tokyo faction and the Kitasato faction were in unison, not only in their admiration of German medicine, but also in their envisioning of medicine as a research science rather than a healing art.16 Second, the adoption of German medical science and the dispatch of Japanese medical students to Germany through the Japanese government’s initiatives and sponsorship – to produce physicians who could monitor, regulate, and improve the health of a collective national body – naturally placed Japanese physicians in close working relations with the Japanese government. On the one hand, intimate relations with the government meant that Japanese physicians could exert their influence more effectively and thoroughly with the help of Japanese bureaucracy and military institutions. On the other hand, this close association also meant that there was a constant and real possibility of the co-optation of medical science by the Japanese government, and that the Japanese physicians sent abroad to learn were expected to comply for the sake of national cause. Dōjinkai, which can be translated as the Association of Universal Benevolence, is one example that clearly demonstrates both sides of the intimate and cooperative relations with the government. Founded in 1902 under the initiative of Irisawa Tatsukichi, a German-educated doctor at Tokyo Imperial University, Dōjinkai was a spearheading organization of Japanese elite doctors who shared a vision of spreading modern medicine into benighted corners of the Asian continent. As the very name of the association implies, Dōjinkai believed in the universality of medical science, and by conjuring up this power, it strove to win the hearts and minds of the Chinese and Koreans.17 Naturally, the leadership positions of the association were filled by such prominent German-educated Japanese doctors as Satō Susumu, Aoyama Tanemichi, Kitasato Shibasaburō, Katayama Kuniyoshi, Okada Waichirō, and Shiga Kiyoshi. But the real driving force behind this non-governmental

156  Doctors of Empire

philanthropic organization of doctors operating on donations was none other than the Japanese government, which saw in Dōjinkai an effective countermeasure that could rival the activities and popularity of long-­standing Western aid organizations such as the Rockefeller Foundation.18 Nagaoka Moriyoshi (1842–1906), a capable Japanese diplomat of noble pedigree, assumed the position of chairman from 1902, and Ōkuma Shigenobu, the two-time prime minister of Japan, followed from 1904 to 1922. The governmental support of the association certainly helped these doctors to turn their version of the “white man’s burden” into reality by setting up hospitals throughout Korea and China. And it cannot be denied that before the outbreak of the second Sino-Japanese War in 1937, Dōjinkai “provided medical treatment and relief to the sick and wounded,” despite its support of Japanese imperialism.19 But once the war began in earnest, the euphoric dream of using medical science for the benefit of Asians quickly dissipated, and the Dōjinkai doctors became, to borrow the words of sociologist MingCheng M. Lo, “warriors in white,” who mainly provided medical relief and epidemic prevention to the Japanese army in war-torn China.20 The explicit co-optation of medical doctors by the Japanese government during the Second World War may entice historians to conclude that, as Bernd Martin has argued in a recent article, Japanese physicians were, from the very beginning, destined to follow the path of human experimentation and bacteriological warfare in Manchuria, due to their “atavistic feudal norms, [and] a rigid behavioural code consecrated by the divine Emperor’s rule developed in the primitive village environment.”21 Yet, the implications of this close proximity of doctors to the state are more sociological than philosophical; the relationship only suggests that the relatively strong proximity to administrative power – in terms of personnel and resources – could have potentially allowed Japanese physicians to execute their medical aspirations more effectively in a certain historical context, just as we learned in the case of Dōjinkai. It is true that Ishii Shirō of Unit 731 used this close accouplement to implement the most heinous biological and chemical weapon development research, but in no way did the connection between doctors and the state or between Germany and Japan predetermine or dictate the downward spiral of Japanese doctors into the pit of amoral medical research. The final yet most enduring element of the academic exchanges between Germany and Japan in the late nineteenth century was the formation of a group of “socialized intellects,” who envisioned Germany

Epilogue  157

as their second home and whose allegiance and emotional attachment to Germany eventually laid the foundations for the rapprochement between Germany and Japan from the 1920s. An 1898 article in OstAsien, a German magazine published by Japanese students in Berlin, on the establishment of the Berlin-Beer-Society (Berlin-Bier-Gesellschaft, Berlin-Bakushu-Kai) in Tokyo clearly illustrates how the sociability of the German-trained Japanese operated throughout the most tumultuous period of German-Japanese relations, or the year between 1894 and 1895. In July 1898, Tamai Kisak, the editor of Ost-Asien, relayed news of the March foundation of the Berlin-Beer-Society in Tokyo, his tone full of palpitating excitement: “who would have dreamed thirty years ago that a few decades later a ‘Berlin-Beer-Society’ would be established in Tokyo?” Tamai continued: Thirty years ago how few – if any – in Japan knew about Germany at all, whose capital city and noble drink gave the name to the society founded today. For the past thirty years, numerous Japanese have made pilgrimages to Germany for studying or similar purposes, and as you see, they did not forget the taste of German beers. Some fifty gentlemen, partly in Japanese traditional clothing and partly in European attire, gathered on this meeting with cheerful looks on their faces; a good native brew, a splendid Ebisu beer, is bubbling in their genuine beer tankards (Masskrügen) and has apparently the best effect on their mood… May it live, grow, and flourish! (Vivat, Crescat, Floreat)22

According to Tamai’s description, the society seems to have had a somewhat modest purpose – its members would indulge in reminiscence of the good old days in Berlin with those who shared their cozy memories of the capital of Germany, all while enjoying beers and refreshing their German language skills in a pleasant manner.23 According to the reported purposes of this society, it seems that it was not that different from a regular dōsōkai (alumni association) where graduates of the same school remembered their school days with their former high school or university classmates. However, reading through the profiles of the members who gathered on a bright spring day on the banks of the charming Sumida River,24 one cannot help but recognize that this society was more than a regular alumni association. For example, leading the society was Prince Saionji Kinmochi (1849–1940), a professional politician of noble pedigree who had been the ambassador to Germany and would become Prime

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Minister in 1906. Furthermore, the son of then Prime Minister Itō Hirobumi joined Prince Saionji to constitute the society’s steering committee. The regular members of the society were no less luminous: Count Inoue Kaoru (the Japanese ambassador to Germany) and Prince Konoe Atsumaro (the President of the House of Peers) were joined by many other high-ranking officials of the Japanese government and military.25 Simply put, one can see the very cream of Japanese elites from the realms of government, bureaucracy, military, and education, joining together to celebrate their connections created by their mutual stays in Berlin. In order to assess the historical significance of this society, the geopolitical context of the late 1890s needs to be carefully considered. Beginning in 1894, the strength of German–Japanese political relations had been put to several serious tests: first, the unexpected victory of Japan over China during the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–95 led Germany to join Russia and France in executing the Triple Intervention to block Japanese expansion in mainland China. Also, the unexpected racial fusillade from Kaiser Wilhelm II in the form of his crude “Yellow Peril” campaign tarnished the favourable image of Germany among the Japanese. Finally, the full-blown pursuits of German Weltpolitik made the Japanese rethink their relations with Germany. Simply put, this period “marked the watershed in the relations between Berlin and Tokyo” in a negative sense.26 Considering the precarious situation of German–Japanese relations, it is remarkable that more than fifty powerful politicians, bureaucrats, soldiers, and physicians gathered and decided to meet regularly in the name of Berlin and German beer. Fundamentally, the Berlin-Beer-Society society signifies that though political relations between Germany and Japan had seriously deteriorated from the Triple Intervention through commencement of the First World War, there existed a strong group of German-educated Japanese elites who were more than willing to put the frosty relations between the two countries back on track. In other words, these elites were the epitome of German ‘soft power’ in East Asia. What was unfortunate for Germans at that time however was that they patently failed to tap into this reservoir of German soft power. As discussed in chapter 1 of this book, the dispatch of two German military physicians to Japan by the German government was a calculated political gesture made in order to expand the sphere of German cultural and economic influence in East Asia. And by the end of the nineteenth century, Germans were immensely successful in creating a solid

Epilogue  159

Berlin-Bier-Gesellschaft (Berlin Bakushu-Kai) of 1898. Ost-Asien, no. 4 (1898): 151.

cohort of Japanese who had developed a strong emotional attachment to Germany even during deteriorating diplomatic relations. However, the German diplomatic corps was no exception to the detrimental mindset that made German teachers of medical science in Japan victims of their own cultural and racial prejudices. Some might argue that the German interest in Japan was overshadowed by German economic aspirations in China, which would eventually collide with Japanese ambitions in North Asia. Yet it was Germany out of all the European imperial powers, precisely because of its colonial presence in the Bay of Kiaochow, that had reason for keeping on good terms with the Japanese. What lay behind the “encirclement” and “isolation” of Germany in the theatre of Asian diplomacy after the Anglo-Japanese Alliance of 1902 were in this respect myopic political calculations, deeply influenced by cultural prejudices and contempt towards Japan. To illustrate, the diary and writing of Erwin Baelz, an astute observer of German–Japanese relations around the turn of the twentieth century, is full of his lamentations on German blunders in Japan. In a 1906 essay he wrote in retrospect regarding the political situation around 1902, Baelz

160  Doctors of Empire

harshly rebukes Max von Brandt, who had originally initiated German– Japanese relations, yet eventually reneged due to his own cultural prejudices. Baelz wrote of Brandt: The opinion of Herr von Brandt had a great deal to do with the mistaken contempt for the Japanese which prevailed in the leading circles of Germany. Brant was, to begin with, minister to Japan, and then for a long time minister to China … Unfortunately he had such contempt for the Japanese (whom he knew only during the first years of the Restoration period), that when he was returning from China to Europe by the Pacific route, he did not trouble to make even a short stay in Japan.27

To be fair, not all German diplomats in Japan shared the same sentiments as Max von Brandt. Facing the increasing popularity of English and French among Japanese students as their first choice of foreign languages, which was in part facilitated by the extensive presence of American, British, and French missionaries and their affiliated schools in southern Japan, a German consul in Nagasaki wrote a report to Berlin in 1902, urging a more active and bold initiative from the German government in spreading German language and culture in Japan. The response from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Berlin, however, could not have been more aloof and dismissive. As historian Erik GrimmerSolem illustrates in a recent article, the German diplomatic headquarters in Berlin “had little understanding of the alleged urgency of the matter and considered the possible activities of German schools in Japan with great skepticism, because from their perspective the proposals of the consul reflected … more of the consul’s ‘contrived approach to a foreign people’ [künstliche Hineintragung in ein fremdes Volk].”28 In other words, as the testimony from Baelz and the example of the German consul in Nagasaki vividly demonstrate, the loss of German opportunities in Japan (and by extension, in North Asia) was not the result of insurmountable foreign competition but crystallized by their own choice, a decision made in the context of groundless feelings of cultural and racial superiority over Japan and of illusionary ambitions in China. In this book, I have reconstructed the efforts of both German physicians in Japan and Japanese medical students educated in Germany, the two groups of doctors of empire, who turned Japan into a nation of modern medical science in the short span of a generation. What was “on the move” between the two countries in the late nineteenth century

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was not just medical science; the two countries engaged in a constant exchange of cultural preconceptions which were in turn remade and unmade through the participation of German and Japanese physicians. The messy entanglements between the two countries that these doctors collectively laboured to create teach us that there is much to be learned and excavated from the transnational space where it is impossible to neatly separate one national history from another.

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Notes

Introduction 1 “Berutsu, Sukuriba ryōkyōju dōzō jomakushiki,” Tokyo iji shinshi 1507 (13 April 1907): 52–4. 2 “Sakujitsu no dōzō jomakushiki,” Yomiuri shinbun, 5 April 1907, 1. 3 Mark R. Peattie, “The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945,” in Peter Duus, ed., The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 6 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 238–9. 4 Mori Ōgai, Deutschlandtagebuch 1884–1888, trans. Heike Schöche (Tübingen: Konkursbuch, 1992). The original Japanese version is included in his collective works, Doitsu nikki, Ōgai zenshū, vol. 20 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1933). 5 Erwin Baelz, Awakening Japan: The Diary of a German Doctor: Erwin Baelz (1932), reprint (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1974), 161. 6 For quite comprehensive bibliographical information on Western works regarding Japanese–Western relations, see Irmela Hijiya-Kirschnereit, ed., Kulturbeziehungen zwischen Japan und dem Westen seit 1853: Eine annotierte Bibliographie (Munich: Iudicium, 1999). See also Josef Kreiner, ed., Deutschland-Japan: Historische Kontakte (Bonn: Bouvier Verlag, 1984); Gerhard Krebs, ed., Japan und Preußen (Munich: Iudicium, 2002). Though less academic in its flavour, Kaku’s book reflects the popular consciousness of historical development between Germany and Japan: Kaku Kōzō, Doitsu o yomeba Nihon ga mieru (Tokyo: Futami Shobō, 1991). 7 See Bernd Martin and Gerhard Krebs, eds., Formierung und Fall der Achse Berlin-Tokyo, (Munich: Iudicium, 1994); Gerhard Krebs, “Deutschland und Pearl Harbor,” Historische Zeitschrift 253 (1991): 313–69; Bernd Martin, Deutschland und Japan in Zweiten Weltkrieg 1940–1945: Vom Angriff auf Pearl

164  Notes to pages 6–7

8

9 10

11

12

13

Harbor bis zur deutschen Kapitulation (Göttingen: Musterschmidt, 1969); Miyake Masaki, “Die Achse Berlin-Rome-Tokio im Spiegel der japanischen Quellen,” Mitteilungen des österreichischen Staatsarchivs 21 (1968): 408–45; Miyake Masaki, Nichi-Doku-I Sangoku Dōmei no kenkyū (Tokyo: Nansōsha, 1975). A classic example is Masaki Miyake, “German Cultural and Political Influence on Japan, 1870–1914,” in John A. Moses and Paul M. Kennedy, eds., Germany in the Pacific and Far East, 1870–1914 (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1977), 156–81. See also Paul-Christian Schenck, Der deutsche Anteil an der Gestaltung des modernen japanischen Rechts- und Verfassungswesens: Deutsche Rechtsberater im Japan der Meiji-Zeit (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1997). Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 7. See, for instance, Andreas Schlieper, Die Nähe fremder Kulturen: Parallelen zwischen Japan und Deutschland (Frankfurt, New York: Campus, 1997). This attention to parallels between the two countries can also be discerned from a biographical study, as the very title of the Masakazu Iwata’s book evinces: Ōkubo Toshimichi – the Bismarck of Japan (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1964). In this book, Iwata argues that “almost a century ago Japan’s policy, shaped by such men as Ōkubo, successfully established a foundation upon which Japan modernized and militarily strengthened herself sufficiently to prevent dismantling by foreign powers. This policy, although a wise one at the time, ultimately made for Japanese aggression and finally for Japan’s defeat in 1945” (5). Bernd Martin, Japan and Germany in the Modern World (Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1995), xv. See also his edited volume, Japans Weg in die Moderne: Ein Sonderweg nach deutschem Vorbild? (Frankfurt, New York: Campus Verlag, 1987). Meaning literally “special path,” the Sonderweg thesis signifies a German deviation from “normality.” For a critique of this approach, see David Blackbourn and Geoff Eley, The Peculiarities of German History: Bourgeois Society and Politics in Nineteenth-Century Germany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984). For the Japanese side, see Sheldon Garon, “Rethinking Modernization and Modernity in Japanese History: A Focus on State–Society Relations,” Journal of Asian Studies 53, no. 2 (1994): 346– 66; Erik Grimmer-Solem, “German Social Science, Meiji Conservatism, and the Peculiarities of Japanese History,” Journal of World History 16, no. 2 (2005): 187–222. Bernd Martin, “Fatal Affinities: The German Role in the Modernisation of Japan in the Early Meiji Period (1868–1895) and Its Aftermath,” in his Japan and Germany in the Modern World (1995), 17–76.

Notes to pages 7–8 165 14 Bernd Martin, “Japanese-German Collaboration in the Development of Bacteriological and Chemical Weapons and the War in China,” in Christian W. Spang and Rolf-Harald Wippich, eds., Japanese–German Relations, 1895–1945: War, Diplomacy, and Public Opinion (London and New York: Routledge, 2006), 200–14. 15 See H. Vianden, “Deutsche Ärzte im Japan der Meiji-Zeit,” in Josef Kreiner, ed., Deutschland-Japan: Historische Kontakte (Bonn: Bouvier, 1984); Ernst Kraas and Inge Umhauer, “Frühe Begegnung auf dem Gebiet der Medizin zwischen Japan und Deutschland,” in Günther Haasch and Albrecht Kloepfer, eds., Japan-Deutschland: Wechselbeziehungen III (Berlin: Deutsch-Japanische Gesellschaft Berlin, 1997), 93–111; Ernst Kraas and Y. Hiki, eds., 300 Jahre deutsch-japanische Beziehungen in der Medizin – Nichidoku igaku kōryū no 300-nen (Tokyo, New York: Springer-Verlag, 1992). 16 John Z. Bowers provides a systematic overview of the adoption of Western medicine in Japan from the last years of Tokugawa Japan through the Meiji period: Western Medical Pioneers in Feudal Japan (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1970); Bowers, “The Adoption of German Medicine in Japan: The Decision and the Beginning,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 53, no. 1 (1979): 57–80; and Bowers, When the Twain Meet: The Rise of Western Medicine in Japan (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980). While I duly acknowledge here that I am deeply indebted to and influenced by his pioneering works, I should also point out that Bower does not discuss the reciprocal aspect of German–Japanese relations – in large part because he relies on materials in English and ignores the role of overseas Japanese medical students as agents of the refracted Germanization of Japanese medicine. Similarly, Kira Shirō’s 2010 book, a final instalment in his trilogy on the history of Western medicine in Japan from the late Tokugawa era to the pinnacle of Meiji classical modernity, chronicles the introduction and dissemination of German medicine in Japan from 1869, but it also confines itself to the self-contained space of Japan: Meijiki ni okeru doitsu igaku no juyō to fukyū: Tōkyō Daigaku Igakubu gaishi (Tokyo: Tsukijishokan, 2010); Kira, Bakumatsu kara haihan chiken made no seiyō igaku (Tokyo: Tsukijishokan, 2005); Kira, Nihon no seiyō igaku no oitachi: Nanbanjin torai kara Meiji Ishin made (Tokyo: Tsukijishokan, 2000). Hermann Vianden, who examines how fourteen prominent German physicians, including such important figures as Leopold Müller and Theodor Hoffmann, took part in building the modern medical education and institutions of Japan, is not immune to this trend: Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin in der Meiji-Zeit (Düsseldorf: Triltsch Verlag, 1985). 17 James Bartholomew’s superb book based upon his 1971 doctoral dissertation on the social and institutional history of the scientific community

166  Notes to page 8 surrounding Kitasato Shibasaburō (1853–1931) and his faction in Japan is one example: “The Acculturation of Science in Japan: Kitasato Shibasaburo and the Japanese Bacteriological Community, 1885–1920,” PhD diss. (Stanford, 1971); Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan: Building a Research Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989). Likewise, in a recently published PhD dissertation, Hsiu-Jane Chen turned her attention to the academic journeys of those Japanese medical men who eventually became the professors of the medical faculty of Tokyo Imperial University. While the move of the focus to Japanese medical men is a welcome addition to the existing scholarship, the limitation of this study is also apparent because it commits a case of double exclusion; by limiting itself to the three cohorts of the future professors of Tokyo Imperial University, it leaves out such important figures of modern Japanese medicine as Kitasato Shibasaburō, Gotō Shinpei, and Mori Ōgai, simply because these doctors did not become professors of the elite medical school. Furthermore, it neglects the majority of the Japanese medical students in Germany from 1880s onwards, who did not have the necessary credentials to be remembered. Hsiu-Jane Chen, “Eine strenge Prüfung deutscher Art”: Der Alltag der japanischen Medizinausbildung im Zeitalter der Reform von 1868 bis 1914 (Husum: Matthiesen Verlag, 2011). Last but not least, though lesser in degree in his attention to Japanese elite doctors, a recent account by Yamazaki Mitsuo of twenty-two Japanese doctors who were close to Mori Ōgai in Germany can be included in this camp as well: Meiji nijūichi-nen rokugatsu mikka: Ōgai ‘Berurin shashin’ no nazo o toku (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2012). 18 Though there exist conceptual similarities among transnational history, global history, and international history in the sense that they all try to answer historical questions that do not neatly fit national narratives, I would argue that the distinctiveness of transnational history lies in its emblematic attention to relation – whether one would call it dialogue, transfer, or exchange – cutting across national boundaries. In this respect, trans­ national history most closely resembles Beziehungsgeschichte in German history and histoire-croisée in French history. For a discussion of histoire croisée, see Michael Werner and Bénédicte Zimmermann, “Beyond Comparison: Histoire Croisée and the Challenge of Reflexivity,” History and Theory 45, no. 1 (Feb. 2006): 30–50. 19 See Michael Geyer and Charles Bright, “World History in a Global Age,” American Historical Review 100, no. 4 (October 1995): 1034–60. Michael Geyer made a similar point in his most recent article. See Geyer, “Deutschland und Japan im Zeitalter der Globalisierung: Überlegungen

Notes to pages 8–9 167

20

21 22 23

24

zu einer komparativen Geschichte jenseits des ModernisierungsParadigmas,” in Sebastian Conrad and Jürgen Osterhammmel, eds., Das Kaiserreich transnational. Deutschland in der Welt 1871–1914 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004), 68–86. It might not be as active as American history, where one could claim that a “transnational turn” has occurred, but increasingly in German history greater attention is being paid to a transitional perspective. See Kaiserreich transnational: Deutschland in der Welt 1871–1914. Among the essays collected in this book, see particularly the article by David Blackbourn for the broader implication in German history: “Das Kaiserreich transnational: Eine Skizze,” 302–24. See also H-German’s recent discussion on “transnationalism” by Ronald J. Granieri, Nina Berman, Young-Sun Hong, Konrad H. Jarausch, and Jennifer Jenkins as well as H-Soz-u-Kult’s forum on the same topic by Matthias Middell, Michel Espagne, Margrit Pernau, Klaus Kilian Patel, Hartmut Kaelble, Hannes Siegrist, Alexander Nützenadel, Dominic Sachsenmaier, Eva-Maria Stollberg, Jochen Meissner, Eckhardt Fuchs, Adrian Gerber, Ekaterina Emeliantseva, Barbara Luethi, Ulrike Freitag, Achim v. Oppen, Isabella Löhr, and Volker Berghahn. Sebastian Conrad, “What Time Is Japan? Problems on Comparative (Intercultural) Historiography,” History and Theory 38, no. 1 (1999): 73. Harry Harootunian, Overcome by Modernity: History, Culture, and Community in Interwar Japan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), xvi. There are sceptics of this transnational approach as a historical methodology. While some critics argue that transnational history is “just old wine in new bottles” which has already been dealt with ad nauseum in diplomatic and international history (Ronald J. Granieri), some more cautious critics fear that “transnational historiography … simply will give substance to the ideology of transnational capitalism as the national historiography of the late nineteenth century advanced the economic ideology of its own time.” Christopher L. Hill, “National Histories and World Systems: Writing Japan, France, and the United States,” in Georg G. Iggers and Q. Edward Wang, eds., Turning Points in Historiography: A Cross-Cultural Perspective (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2002), 181. It is worth nothing that Ute Frevert called for the “Europeanization,” not globalization of German history: “Europeanizing Germany’s Twentieth Century,” History and Memory: Studies in Representation of the Past 17, no. 1 (Fall 2005): 87–116. For notable exceptions, see Andrew Zimmermann’s Alabama in Africa: Booker T. Washington, the German Empire, and the Globalization of the New South (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010); Sebastian Conrad, The Quest for the Lost Nation: Writing History in Germany

168  Notes to pages 9–11

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26

27

28

29

and Japan in the American Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010). Charles Maier, “A Reply to ‘Reflections on Transnational History’ by Konrad H. Jarausch,” in H-German, 23 January 2006. Pierre-Yves Saunier also made a similar remark: “History’s purpose might not be to substitute a history of the nation-state with a history without or against the nationstate, but to find a way to study how nation-states and flows of all sorts are entangled components of the modern age.” Saunier, “Learning by Doing: Notes about the Making of the Palgrave Dictionary of Transnational History,” Journal of Modern European History 6, no. 2 (2008): 169. I explored this issue in more detail in a recent forum article published in German History. Jennifer Jenkins, Kris Manjapra, Hoi-eun Kim, Young-sun Hong, and Corinna Unger, “Asia, Germany, and the Transnational Turn,” German History 28, no. 4 (2010): 515–36. Originally used by historians of ancient times, this concept is sometimes referred to as “collective biographies” or “multiple career analysis” and is still widely adopted by ancient historians and medievalists. There is even a journal dedicated to prosopographical study, Medieval Prosopography. See the following classical works for modern adoption of prosopographical approaches: Charles Beard, An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution of the United States (New York: Macmillan, 1913); Lewis Namier, The Structure of Politics at the Accession of George III (London: Macmillan, 1929). See also R.S. Neale, Class and Ideology in the Nineteenth Century (London, Boston: Routledge, 1971); Richard D. Brown, “The Founding Fathers of 1776 and 1787: A Collective View,” William and Mary Quarterly, 3rd ser. 33 (1976): 465–80. For German history, see Herbert F. Ziegler, Nazi Germany’s New Aristocracy: The SS Leadership, 1925–1939 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989). Lawrence Stone, “Prosopography,” in his book Past and Present Revisited (London, New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1987), 45. Originally published in Daedalus 100 (1971): 46–79. Most previous works on German-Japanese cultural encounters have invariably used a single individual as a unit of analysis or relied on biographical studies. See Japanischen Kulturinsitut Köln, ed., Kulturvermittler zwischen Japan und Deutschland: Biographische Skizzen aus vier Jahrhunderten (Frankfurt am Main, New York: Campus Verlag, 1990); Araki Yasuhiko, Kindai Nichi-doku kōshōshi kenkyū josetsu: Saisho no doitsu daigaku nihonjin gakusei Mashima Seiji to Kāru Rēman (Tokyo: Yūshōdō Shuppan, 2003); Miyanaga Takashi, Nichi-doku bunka jinbutsu kōryūshi: Doitsugo kotohajime (Tokyo: Sanshūsha, 1993).

Notes to pages 11–16 169 30 For a discussion of recent literature on German imperialism/colonialism, see Uta Poiger, “Imperialism and Empire in Twentieth-Century Germany,” History & Memory 17, nos. 1–2 (Spring/Summer 2005): 117–43; David Ciarlo, “Globalizing German Colonialism,” German History 26, no. 2 (2008): 285–98. See also Sebastian Conrad, German Colonialism: A Short History (Cambridge: New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 31 Klaus Mühlhahn, Herrschaft und Widerstand in der “Musterkolonie” Kiautschou: Interaktionen zwischen China und Deutschland 1897–1914 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2000); Charles Stephenson, Germany’s Asia-Pacific Empire: Colonialism and Naval Policy, 1885–1914 (Rochester: Boydell, 2009); Chun-Shik Kim, Deutscher Kulturimperialismus in China: Deutsches Kolonialschulwesen in Kiautschou (China) 1898–1914 (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 2004). 32 Wolfgang Uwe Eckart, Medizin und Kolonialimperialismus: Deutschland, 1884–1945 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1997). 33 George Steinmetz, Devil’s Handwriting: Precoloniality and the German Colonial State in Qingdao, Samoa, and Southwest Africa (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007). 34 Joseph S. Nye, Soft Power: The Means to Success in World Politics (New York: Public Affairs, 2004). 35 Ruth Rogaski, Hygienic Modernity: Meanings of Health and Disease in TreatyPort China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004). 36 Detlev Peukert, “The Genesis of the ‘Final Solution’ from the Spirit of Science,” in Thomas Childers and Jane Caplan, eds., Reevaluating the Third Reich (New York: Holmes & Meier, 1994), 234–52. 37 The literature on Nazi medicine is enormous. Robert Proctor, Racial Hygiene: Medicine under the Nazis (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988); Paul Weindling, Health, Race, and German Politics between National Unification and Nazism, 1870–1945 (Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989); Michael Burleigh and Wolfgang Wippermann, The Racial State: Germany 1933–1945 (Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991). 38 Stefan Kühl, Nazi Connection: Eugenics, American Racism and German National Socialism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994). Chapter 1: Same Bed, Different Dreams 1 This school, which eventually became the Medical Faculty of Tokyo Imperial University in 1897, originated from the Vaccination Centre [Shutōjo] that five medical practitioners trained in Dutch medicine established in 1858. Up until 1897, the school changed its name incessantly.

170  Notes to page 16 In 1861, the Vaccination Centre was renamed the Institute of Western Medicine [Seiyō Igaku-sho] under the shogunate, and in 1863, it was renamed the Institute of Medicine [Igaku-sho]. In 1868, the Institute of Medicine was renamed the Medical School and Hospital [Igakkō-kenbyōin]. In December 1869, the Medical School and Hospital was renamed the University East Building (or College) [Daigaku-Tōkō] under the new Meiji government, while Kaiseijo, a school for Western language and technique at the middle school level was renamed the University South Building [Daigaku-Nankō]. In 1872, a new school system was established following the promulgation of “Educational Systems” by the Ministry of Education, and under this system, the school was renamed the First University District Medical School (or School of Medicine of the First University District) [Daiichi-daigaku-ku-Igakkō]. In 1874, the First University District Medical School was renamed Tokyo Medical School [Tokyo-Igakkō]. In 1877, Tokyo Medical School was renamed the University of Tokyo Faculty of Medicine, as Tokyo Kaisei Gakkō (a follower of Nankō and later Kaisei-Gakkō) merged with Tokyo Medical School into the University of Tokyo. Finally, in 1886, the University of Tokyo was renamed the Imperial University, and subsequently, the medical faculty was designated as Imperial University Medical College. Tokyo Daigaku Igakubu Sōritsu Hyakunen Kinenkai, ed., Tokyo Daigaku Igakubu hyakunenshi (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1967). See also Toshiaki Okubo, “The Birth of the Modern University in Japan,” Cahiers d’Histoire Mondiale / Journal of World History 10, no. 4 (1967): 763–79. Unless otherwise noted, “the medical school in Tokyo” in this book refers to this same medical institution at the University of Tokyo. 2 Leopold Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku: Skizzen und Erinnerungen aus der Zeit des geistigen Umschwungs in Japan, 1871–1876,” Deutsche Rundschau, Jahrgang 15, 2, no. 21 (1888): 318–19. This article is a modified version of the 75-page handwritten report he initially filed with the Ministry of the Foreign Affairs of Germany in November 1876. Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preussischer Kulturbesitz (GStA) Pk, I. HA Rep. 76 Kultusministerium, VIII A Nr. 643, Einsatz deutscher Aerzte im Ausland, darunter Japan, 1876. A draft of this report, which Müller wrote during his return journey from Yokohama to San Francisco in 1875, is also stored in Landesarchiv Berlin, under the signature, E Rep. 200-35, Nr. 57, Manuskripte von Leopold Müller für wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen und Vorträge. The published article is also translated into Japanese by Ishibashi Choei, Ogawa Teizō, and Imai Tadashi: Tokyo-Igaku (Tokyo: hekistojapan, 1975). 3 Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 442. English translation of this quotation is from John Z. Bowers, “The Adoption of German Medicine in Japan: The Decision and the Beginning,” Bulletin of History of Medicine 53, no. 1 (1979): 67.

Notes to pages 17–18 171 4 This rather embarrassing situation was recently recalled by Japanese journalist Tachibana Takashi in his solicitation for the reform of Tokyo University: “Meiji yonen, Tōdai Igakubu wa gakusei no hachiwari o taigaku saseta,” Bungeishunju 76, no. 9 (1998): 262–76. Only fifty-nine students were allowed to continue their medical studies after Müller consulted with the Ministry of Education in December 1871: ibid., 270. Of course, some students decided to leave the medical school voluntarily, thinking the medical education they could get from these German teachers would detract from their résumés, rather than enhance them. According to Müller, there were only 140 students in his first class on anatomy (4 September 1871): “Tokyo-Igaku,” 442. 5 Louis L. Seaman, The Real Triumph of Japan: The Conquest of the Silent Foe (New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1906), 12. 6 Ibid., 196. 7 Ibid., 115–27. 8 Ibid., 12. 9 Ibid., 4–5. A total of 52,946 Japanese soldiers were killed and died from wounds, while only 11,992 died from all diseases. Seaman also presented a startling comparison to previous wars: one of the most startling was the French Campaign in Madagascar of 1894 where 14,000 men were sent to the front, of whom twenty-nine were killed in action, while 7000 died from preventable disease. Ibid., 3. 10 The names of these doctors are, in alphabetical order: Erwin Otto Eduard Baelz, Joseph Hugo Vincenz Disse, Friedrich Karl Wilhelm Dönitz, Hans Paul Bernhard Gierke, Theodor Eduard Hoffmann, Ferdinand Adalbert Junker von Langegg, Leopold Müller, Albrecht von Roretz, Heinrich Botho Scheube, Emil August Wilhelm Schultze, Julius Karl Scriba, Johann Ernst Tiegel, Albrecht Ludwig Agathon Wernich, and Richard Wunsch. Hermann Heinrich Vianden’s Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin in der Meiji-Zeit (Düsseldorf: Triltsch Verlag, 1985) provides the most comprehensive biographical information about these doctors. In addition to these German physicians who were mainly occupied in teaching Japanese students, Michael Rauck compiled a list of German physicians who were stationed in Deutsches Marinelazarett in Yokohama. They are: Hermann Otto Theodor Gutschow, Richard Kleffel, Hermann Wilhelm Paul Koch, Paul Kügler, Heinrich Karl Matthiolius, Johannes Runkwitz, and Wilhelm Gustav Rudolf Scholtz. Furthermore, there were eighteen less famous German and German-speaking physicians in Japan in the late 19th and early 20th centuries: Michael P. Albrecht (Hakodate), A. Beckeland, Ferdinand Grimm (Sapporo), Albert K. Haberer, Josef Lauterer, Joachim August Leppe(n) (Nagasaki), Adolph Lord (Tokyo), Mansfeld (Yokohama), Otto Gottlieb Johann Mohnike (Nagasaki), Ernst Ohse

172  Notes to pages 18–21

11

12

13

14

15

16 17 18

19 20 21 22

(Tokyo), Eduard M. Papellier (Kobe), Jakob August Fridolin Paravicini di Capelli (Swiss national in Yokohama), Karl E. Quosig (Kobe), Ludwig Reidhaar (Swiss national, Yokohama), Schiesser, Friedrich Josef Adalbert Seitz, Oskar Simmons, and Völckers (Kobe). I thank Michael Rauck for bringing these names to my attention. See Morikawa Jun, “Doitsu igaku no saiyō ni kansuru mitsu no gimon o megutte,” Nihon ishigaku zasshi 39, no. 3 (1993): 347–59; Haraguchi Tadao, “Doitsu igaku saiyō mae no betsu na jijō – omoni Dajōkan kōbunsho yori no inrei,” Nihon ishigaku zasshi 26, no. 1 (1980): 17–32. Siebold was originally from Würzburg, but was regarded as Dutch due to his employment by the Dutch government. On Siebold and his influence on Japan, see Arnulf Thiede, Yoshiki Hiki, and Gundolf Keil, eds., Philipp Franz von Siebold and His Era: Prerequisites, Developments, Consequences and Perspectives (Heidelberg: Springer, 2000). Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 46–7. A Japanese historian, Watanabe Minoru also follows this line of argument: Kindai Nihon kaigai ryūgakuseishi, vol. 1 (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1977), 455. John Z. Bowers, When the Twain Meet: The Rise of Western Medicine in Japan (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980), 158. In his article published a year earlier, which is essentially an annotated translation of Müller’s memoir, Bowers makes a similar case. He claims that “Japan’s decision to adopt German medicine was singularly fortuitous … It was the case of a country with the most elaborate and deeply rooted feudalistic culture borrowing from a country with a comparable cultural heritage.” Bowers, “The Adoption of German Medicine in Japan,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 53, no. 1 (1979): 80. Mahito H. Fukuda, “Public Health in Modern Japan: From Regimen to Hygiene,” in Dorothy Porter, ed., The History of Public Health and the Modern State (Amsterdam: Editions Rodopi B.V. Amsterdam, 1994), 390. Vianden mistakenly calls Sagara Chian “Sagara Kōan”: Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 47–4. Ishiguro Tadanori, Kaikyū kyūjūnen (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1983 [1936]), 127–30. Ikuo Ishiyama, Gunther Geserick, and Wolfgang Keil, “Der Einfluss der Charité auf die Entwicklung der modernen Gerichtsmedizin in Japan,” Zeitschrift fuer Klinische Medizin 41 (1986): 1557. Ishiguro, Kaikyū kyūjūnen, 133. Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 48. Hoshi Shinichi, Sofu Koganei Yoshikiyo no ki (Tokyo: Kawade Shobō Shinsha, 1974), 58–9. Christian Oberländer, “The Introduction of ‘German Medicine’ in Japan

Notes to pages 21–2 173

23 24

25

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in the 1870s: ‘Heteronomous Modernization’ and ‘Internal Colonization,’” in Shizu Sakai, Tatsuo Sakai, Christian Oberländer, and Yasutaka Ichinokawa, eds., Transaction in Medicine and Heteronomous Modernization (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Center for Philosophy, 2009), 148. About Willis, see Hugh Cortazzi, Dr. Willis in Japan, 1862–1877: British Medical Pioneer (London: Athlone Press, 1985). Ishiguro, Kaikyū kyūjūnen, 134–5. It is rather ironic that Müller speaks ill of Verbeck – the one who cast a deciding vote for the adoption of German medicine – quite condescendingly as having no other characteristic than his boundless submissiveness to each mood of the Japanese authorities: “Tokyo-Igaku,” 446. But indeed it seems like Verbeck had boundless power within the University of Tokyo. According to a List of the professors engaged in Tokio-Daigaku beginning from the year 1870, a collection of contracts made between foreign teachers and the University of Tokyo (now stored at the University of Tokyo General Library as a part of the Tōkyō Daigaku 50-nen shi shiryō), Verbeck appeared to have deeply influenced the selection and dismissal of foreign teachers. William Eliot Griffis, Verbeck of Japan: A Citizen of No Country. A Life Story of Foundation Work Inaugurated by Guido Fridolin Verbeck (New York: Fleming H. Revell, 1900). See also Ōhashi Akio and Hirano Hideo, Meiji Ishin to aru oyatoi gaikokujin: Furubekki no shōgai (Tokyo: Shin Jinbutsu Ōraisha, 1988); Bowers, “Adoption of German Medicine in Japan,” 59–60; Watanabe, Kindai Nihon kaigai ryūgakuseishi, vol. 1, 455–7. The lingering task of assuaging William Willis, who unexpectedly lost his job in Tokyo, was resolved when Saigō Takamori invited him to lead a hospital and medical school in Kagoshima at the handsome compensation of 900 yen per month. Kanokogi Toshinori, “Meiji shonen no doitsu igaku no dōnyū ni tsuite: Doitsu gawa shin shiryō ni yoru Tōkyō Daigaku shi hoi,” Tōkyō Daigaku shi kiyō 7 (1989): 5. Erik Grimmer-Solem, “Die preußische Hochschulpolitik im Spannungsfeld des internationalen Kulturwettbewerbs: Der Fall Japan (1869–1914),” in Wolfgang Neugebauer and Bärbel Holtz, eds., Kulturstaat und Bürgergesellschaft: Preußen, Deutschland und Europa im 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhundert (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2010), 203–4. On Brandt and his plan of colonizing Hokkaidō, see Rolf-Harald Wippich, Japan als Kolonie? Max von Brandts Hokkaidō-Projekt 1865/67 (Hamburg: Abera, 1997). On Brandt and his connection to German East Asian policies in general (though heavily tilted to his activities in China), refer to Richard Szippel, “Max von Brandt and German Imperialism in East Asia in the Late Nineteenth Century,” PhD diss. (University of Notre Dame, 1989).

174  Notes to pages 22–3 28 Japan was still using the lunar calendar; it was 14 February 1870 on the Japanese calendar. John Z. Bowers mistakenly quoted the date of request as 18 March 1870. The actual request letter is stored in Berlin Landesarchiv, E Rep. 200-35, Nr. 46, Bl. 1–2. “Anforderung der Japaner, 2 Ärzte für die Medizinische Schule zu entsenden.“ 15 March 1870. 29 Letter from Max von Brandt to Otto von Bismarck, Bundesarchiv, Berlin, R/901-70211, Acta betr. den Eintritt deutscher Unterthanen in Japanische Dienste vom Mai 1868 bis October 1873, Bl. 27–28. 30 Ibid. 31 It is a stark contrast to imperial Germany’s later caution and reluctance in dispatching military personnel as advisers to foreign locations. Although there is a contextual difference, when Turkey continuously requested that the German government send military – and civilian – advisers to Turkey, Bismarck always tried to avoid the request by making up various reasons. See, for instance, Friedrich Scherer, Adler und Halbmond: Bismarck und der Orient 1878–1890 (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2001). 32 Letter from Max von Brandt to the Japanese government, R/901-70211, Bl. 29–30. 33 Berlin Landesarchiv, E Rep. 200-35, Nr. 46, Bl. 10–11. Anfrage. Ob. Dr. M. nach Japan gehen will. Müller’s personal motivation to go to Japan is unclear from the correspondences, but it would be fair to assume that a better-than-usual pecuniary compensation, along with his insatiable appetite for something exotic, might have had an impact. 34 The term “Culturmission” is from a Berlin local newspaper, which published the obituary of Müller on 16 September 1893. But it is clear that the Prussian government viewed this request as an opportunity to exhibit cultural and medical sophistication to the less refined Japanese people. Beilage des Berliner Börsen-Kurier Nr. 435, Sonnabend, 16 September 1893. 35 Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 316. For a detailed description of Müller’s activities in Haiti, see Christian Scheer, “Dr. med. Leopold Müller (1824–1893). Chef des Militärsanitätswesens der Republik Haiti, Leibarzt des Kaisers von Japan, Leitender Arzt des königlich preußischen Garnisonlazaretts in Berlin. Eine nichtalltägliche Biographie aus der Geschichte des Invalidenfriedhofes,” in Wolfgang Voigt and Kurt Wernicke, eds., Stadtgeschichte im Fokus von Kultur- und Sozialgeschichte. Festschrift für Laurenz Demps (Berlin: Trafo Verlag, 2006), 288–300. 36 Letter from Brandt to Bülow, 21 July 1874. Bundesarchiv Berlin, R/90163498, Eintritt deutscher Untertanen in japanische Dienste. Bd. 2. Okt 1873. – Dez. 1875, Bl. 83. Vianden mistakenly dated this document as 21 August 1874. Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 74.

Notes to pages 23–6 175 37 Letter from Brandt to Bülow, 21 July 1874. Bundesarchiv Berlin, R/90163498, Eintritt deutscher Untertanen in japanische Dienste. Bd. 2. Okt 1873. – Dez. 1875, Bl. 83. 38 Ibid. 39 On Rein, see Matthias Koch and Sebastian Conrad, eds., Johannes Justus Rein Briefe eines deutschen Geographen aus Japan 1873–1875 (Munich: Iudicium, 2006). 40 Letter from Brandt to Bismarck, 11 July 1874. Bundesarchiv Berlin, Bl. 71–2. R/901-63498, Eintritt deutscher Untertanen in japanische Dienste. Bd. 2. Okt 1873. – Dez. 1875, Bl. 83. 41 GStA, Pk, I. HA Rep. 76 Kultusministerium, VIII A Nr. 643 Einsatz deutscher Aerzte. 42 Müller, “Tokio Igaku,” 449. 43 Michael S. Laver, Japan’s Economy by Proxy in the Seventeenth Century: China, the Netherlands, and the Bakufu (Amherst, NY: Cambria, 2008). 44 Michael S. Laver, The Sakoku Edicts and the Politics of Tokugawa Hegemony (Amherst, NY: Cambria, 2011). 45 Robert I. Hellyer, Defining Engagement: Japan and Global Contexts, 1640– 1868 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009). 46 Ellen Gardner Nakamura gives a general definition of Dutch Learning as follows: “Although the work rangaku literally means ‘Dutch learning,’ the books studied in Japan included not only Dutch books but Chinese translations of them, in addition to Dutch translations of other European works. Therefore, the word rangaku should be understood broadly to refer to European knowledge, particularly concerning medicine and technology, which was obtained through the medium of books imported at Nagasaki during the Edo period.” Practical Pursuits: Takano Chōei, Takahashi Keisaku, and Western Medicine in Nineteenth-Century Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005), 6. 47 Bowers spent his life researching these Western pioneers of medical science in Japan. See Western Medical Pioneers in Feudal Japan (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1970), in which Bowers extensively discusses the teaching and medical practices of Willem Ten Rhinje, Engelbert Kaempfer, Cal Pieter Thunberg, Philipp Franz Siebold, and Pompe von Meedervoort. The sequel to this book, When the Twain Meet, deals mainly with the periods of the Bakumatsu and the early Meiji era. See also Ilza Veith, “European Impressions of Japanese Medicine during the Tokugawa Period,” Nihon ishigaku zasshi 10, no. 4 (1964): 1–16. This article deals mainly with the activities of Caspar Schambergen, Engelbert Kaempfer, Carl Peter Thunberg, and Philips Franz von Siebold.

176  Notes to pages 27–9 48 Yoshiki Hiki and Sumiko Hiki, “Siebold as a Surgeon, Physician and Medical Teacher in Japan,” in Arnulf Thiede, Yoshiki Hiki, and Gundolf Keil, eds., Philipp Franz von Siebold and His Era: Prerequisites, Developments, Consequences and Perspectives (Heidelberg: Springer, 2000), 71–82. 49 It is itself a translation of the original German text by Johann Adam Kulmus, Anatomische Tabellen of 1722. 50 A.M. Luyendijk-Elshout, “‘Ontleedinge’ (Anatomy) as Underlying Principle of Western Medicine in Japan,” in H. Beukers, A.M. LuyendijkElshout, M.E. van Opstall, and F. Vos, eds., Red-Haired Medicine: Dutch– Japanese Medical Relations (Amsterdam: Rodopi B.V., 1991), 32–4. 51 Ibid., 34. 52 Noriaki Matsumura, Yoshiyuki Hirono, and Yōko Matsubara, “Fujikawa Yū, Pioneer of the History of Medicine in Japan,” Historia Scientiarum 8, no. 2 (1998): 157–71. 53 Yū Fujikawa, Geschichte der Medizin in Japan: Kurzgefasste Darstellung der Entwicklung der Japanischen Medizin mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Einführung der europäischen Heilkunde in Japan (Tokyo: Kaiserlich-Japanischen Unterrichtsministerium, 1911), 59. This short booklet composed in German was commissioned by the Japanese Ministry of Education and was distributed at the International Exposition of Hygiene at Dresden in 1911. 54 Sukehiro Hirakawa, “The Meaning of Dutch Studies in Tokugawa Japan,” in his Japan’s Love-Hate Relationship with the West (Folkestone, Kent: Global Orient, 2005), 52. 55 Shigehisa Kuriyama’s article, which examines Kaitai Shinsho from the perspective of the history of visual perception, is one of the most prominent scholarly works: “Between Mind and Eye: Japanese Anatomy in the Eighteenth Century,” in Charles Leslie and Allan Young, eds., Paths to Asian Medical Knowledge (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 21–43. 56 Japanologist Mark Teeuwen, for example, argues that “while at the time of this book’s [Kaitai Shinsho’s] publication only a handful of physicians had an interest of [sic] Western medicine, Western anatomical knowledge had become familiar to most by 1800.” “Western Learning in Japan,” in Oliver Leaman, ed., Encyclopedia of Asian Philosophy (London: Routledge, 2001), 565. 57 Ann Jannetta, The Vaccinators: Smallpox, Medical Knowledge, and the “Opening” of Japan (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2007), 5. 58 John Z. Bowers, “J.L.C. Pompe van Meedervoort: The Official Adoption of Western Medicine,” in his Western Medical Pioneers in Feudal Japan (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1970), 176–201.

Notes to pages 31–4 177 Chapter Two: Borrowed Hands 1 John Z. Bowers, “The Adoption of German Medicine in Japan: The Decision and the Beginning,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 53, no. 1 (1979): 63. Ishiguro Tadanori reports that it was a dazzling spectacular that one did not see before in Japan: Kaikyū kyūjūnen (Tokyo: Hakubunkan, 1936), 157. 2 Felix von Niemeyer, Lehrbuch der speciellen Pathologie und Therapie mit besonderer Rücksicht auf Physiologie und pathologische Anatomie (Berlin: A. Hirschwald, 1859–61). 3 Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 320. Albrecht Roretz, who worked in Kyoto, also had a similar experience: “Medizin und Unterrichtswesen in Japan,” Wiener Medizinische Wochenschrift 27, no. 19 (1877): 457. 4 Albrecht Wernich, who came to Japan in 1874 replacing the retiring Theodor Hoffmann, left a report on the episode Müller and Hoffmann had encountered in Japan in 1871,which he must have heard directly from Müller and Hoffmann: “Über die Fortschritte der modernen Medicin in Japan,” Berliner Klinischen Wochenschrift, 9 August 1875, 447. 5 Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 331–2. 6 Frustrated, on the one hand, with the shortage of human cadavers for the study of anatomy and sympathetic, on the other hand, to the repugnance of medical students for the dissecting room, French medical student Louis Anzoux (1797–1880) developed “dissectable” models using a secret mixture of papier-mâché. For the introduction of this “artificial anatomy” to Japan, see S. Ishida and Willem J. Mulder, “Introduction of the Anatomie clastique to Japan,” Journal of the Japan Society of Medical History 30, no. 1 (1984): 56-8. See also Willem J. Mulder, L. Th. J. Auzoux’s Models Used for the Dissemination of Anatomic Knowledge, Proceedings of 6th Congress E.A.M.H.S.M. (Leiden, 1992): 129–36; and B. Grob, The World of Auzoux: Models of Man and Beast in Papier-Mâché (Leiden: Museum Boerhaave, 2000). 7 Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 323. 8 Ibid., 332. 9 Ibid., 446. 10 Books on human anatomy by Austrian anatomist and professor of medicine at the University of Wien Joseph Hyrtl (1810–94) – Lehrbuch der Anatomie des Menschen (Prague, 1846) and Handbuch der topographischen Anatomie (Vienna, 1853) – became the first textbooks of applied anatomy. For Hyrtl, see Rudolf-Josef Gasser and Christine Mitterwenger-Fessl, eds., Der Anatom Joseph Hyrtl, 1810–1894 (Wien: W. Maudrich, 1991).

178  Notes to pages 34–9 11 12 13 14 15 16

17 18 19 20

21

22 23 24 25 26

27

28

29 30 31

Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 319. Ikeda Kensai, Kaikoroku (Tokyo, 1917), 9–10. Ishiguro, Kaikyū kyūjūnen, 100. Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 320. Ibid., 319. Theodor Hoffmann, “Die Heilkunde in Japan und Japanische Aerzte,“ Mitteilungen der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens 1, no. 1 (May 1873): 24. Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 318. Wernich, “Über die Fortschritte der modernen Medicin in Japan,” 447. See Thomas Hoyt Broman, The Transformation of German Academic Medicine, 1750–1820 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). See Okamoto Takashi, Kaibō kotohajime: Yamawaki Tōyō no hito to shisō (Tokyo: Dōseisha, 1988). See also Fujikawa Hideo, “Kohōka to rangaku,” in his Seitō shiwa: Nichi-doku bunka kōshōshi no sokumen (Tokyo: Tamagawa Daigaku Shuppanbu, 1974), 9–20. Although the actual contracts did not survive, the details are available in the correspondence Müller wrote and received. See Berlin Landesarchiv, E Rep. 200-35, Nr. 46, Bl. 10–11; Anfrage, Ob. Dr. M. nach Japan gehen will. See also Bl. 6, letter of Müller dated 12 September 1871; “Gehaltsfragen, den auch nach Japan beorderten Dr. Hoffmann betreffend.” Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 316. Ibid., 325. Ibid., 442. Ibid., 323. By the time of Müller’s departure in 1875, only thirty-five students remained, owing to various personal reasons, such as disease and death, and only twenty-five students graduated in 1876. Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 443. See also Tokyo Daigaku Igakubu Sōritsu Hyakunen Kinenkai, ed., Tokyo Daigaku Igakubu hyakunenshi (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1967), 125. When Hoffmann lectured in English, his lecture was translated by Miyake Hiizu, instructor of the school, who later received the first very first medical doctorate awarded by the University of Tokyo. Ishiguro, Kaikyū kyūjūnen, 154–5. As to Shiba Ryōkai, see Miyanaga Takashi, Nichi-doku bunka jinbutsu kōryūshi: Doitsugo kotohajime (Tokyo: Sanshūsha, 1993), 133–6. Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 457. Ibid., 442–3. Ibid., 445.

Notes to page 39 179 32 Bundesarchiv Berlin, R/901-70211, Eintritt deutscher in Japan. Dienste, Bl. 126, 136, 139, 144, and 145. 33 Not much information is available as to Cochius except that he was a high school director (Margarethenschule) in Berlin. He stayed in Japan from 1873–6. Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 70; Müller, “TokyoIgaku,” 447. 34 Born on 5 December 1839 in Neudamm, Hilgendorf used to work as a dozent for zoology at Leopold-Akademie, Dresden, and was a curator of the Zoological Museum in Berlin. Active in zoological research, Hilgendorf was one of the most active members at the Deutsche Gesellschaft für die Natur- und Völkerkunde (OAG) in Japan, until he left Japan in 1876. For the activities of OAG, see chapter 5 of this book. Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 70. Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 447. 35 As was the case with Hermann Cochius, Hermann Funk was also a high school teacher from Berlin (Ostrobo) and worked in Japan between 1873 and 1876. Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 70. 36 Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 447. Dönitz’s anatomical skill became widely known even among ordinary Japanese people. Nichi-Nichi shinbun of 20 February 1875: “A 38-year-old housewife had a chronic heart disease. All treatments failed. She requested that in the case of her death an autopsy be performed to benefit mankind. Although the relatives opposed the dissection, the husband insisted. Dr Dönitz covered the corpse with a white cloth, exposed the chest area, and took the heart out of a twentycentimetre wide opening. Afterwards, he sewed the opening immediately and wiped the blood off. All of the relatives were pleased as the desire of the deceased was actually met. The fine dissection skill of Dr Dönitz was surprising.” Quoted in Ikuo Ishiyama, Gunther Geserick, and Wolfgang Keil, “Der Einfluss der Charité auf die Entwicklung der modernen Gerichtsmedizin in Japan,“ Zeitschrift fuer Klinische Medizin 41 (1986): 1556. 37 Holtz, who had already been teaching in Japan, joined the faculty in the fall of 1873, and Drs Rudolf Lange and Leopold Schendel came to teach languages and mathematics respectively in 1874 and January 1875. Bowers mistakenly reports that “the preparatory staff was completed a few months later with the arrival of Lange, another philologist from Berlin, to teach foreign languages, and Schendel, also from Berlin, for mathematics.” Bowers, “The Adoption of German Medicine in Japan,” 69. But documents from the German Ministry of Foreign Affairs attest to different, much later, arrival dates. On 14 August 1874 – not a few months later, as Bowers claims – Sinagawa, Chargé d’affaires of the Japanese Legation in Berlin, sent the detailed contract information of Dr Lange to the German

180  Notes to pages 39–40

38

39 40 41

42 43 44 45

Ministry of Foreign Affairs: Bundesarchiv Berlin, R/901-63498, Eintritt deutscher Untertanen in japanische Dienste. Bd. 2. Okt 1873. – Dez. 1875, Bl. 52–4. In a similar fashion, Sinagawa requested the dispatch of Dr Leopold Schendel in his letter to the German Ministry of Foreign Affairs on 29 October 1874: R/901-63498, Bl. 91–3. The report sent by Dr Wilhelm Schultze to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in 1877 also confirms that Schendel arrived in January 1875: Emil August Wilhelm Schultze, “Bericht über die Entwicklung der Medizinischen Akademie zu Tokio in der Zeit vom Januar 1875 bis Oktober 1877,” R/901-63499, Eintritt deutscher Untertanen in japanische Dienste. Bd. 3. Jan. 1876 – Dez. 1880. Bl. 128. Quoting Schultze’s report, Vianden correctly writes the arrival date of Schendel, but he falsely writes his name as Scheudel, not Schendel. Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 94. The detailed subjects taught at school were as follows: Year 1 (preparatory school): German, arithmetic, general geography, and further education in Japanese and Chinese studies. Year 2: German, arithmetic and geometry, geography and history, basic Latin, and introductory natural science. Year 3: German (for natural science), Latin, mathematics, physics, chemistry, and natural sciences. Year 4: (first year at medical school): anatomy, German, German composition, Latin, mathematics, physics, chemistry, and natural sciences. Year 5: dissection, physiology, general surgery, German, physics, chemistry, partial self-experimentation, natural sciences, and microscopic exercises. Year 6: general and special pathology and therapy, therapeutics (Arzneimittellehre), special surgery, surgical operations, and methods of clinical examination. Year 7: surgery and internal clinical auscultation, selected readings of special surgery and pathology, ophthalmology, anatomical and surgical exercises. Year 8: clinical visits to hospitals, practical exercises in hospital and polyclinic, review lectures, and examination. Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 448. Ibid., 451. Ibid. E.P. Thompson, “Time, Work-Discipline and Industrial Capitalism,” Past and Present 38 (Dec. 1967). Repr. in Thompson, Customs in Common (New York: The New Press, 1991), 352–403. Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 318. Ibid., 446. Ibid., 325. See Christian Oberländer, Zwischen Tradition und Moderne: Die Bewegung für den Fortbestand der Kanpō-Medizin in Japan (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1995). Though the practitioners of Chinese medicine organized themselves

Notes to pages 40–43 181 in an attempt to keep Chinese medicine as the official form of medical practice – they for instance petitioned three times to parliament between 1891 and 1895 – Chinese medicine lost its status as a legitimate form of medical practice by the end of the nineteenth century. Yuki Terazawa, “Gender, Knowledge, and Power: Reproductive Medicine in Japan, 1690– 1930,” PhD diss. (University of California, Los Angeles, 2001), 213–19. 46 Irisawa Tatsukichi, Akamon kaiko (Tokyo: Seikatsusha, 1945), 9–10. 47 Wernich, “Über die Fortschritte der modernen Medicin in Japan,” 447. 48 For purchasing books and journals for the hitherto non-existent library, the Japanese government dispensed a large sum of money – 20,000 or 30,000 dollars – all at once. Wernich, “Über die Fortschritte der modernen Medicin in Japan,” 474. (Although the source does not specify which country’s dollar, my guess is that the payment was in Mexican silver dollars.) 49 Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 451. 50 Ibid., 325. 51 The Japan Gazette (24 November 1875, 2) reports as follows: “A magnificent banquet, at which about one hundred convives assembled, was given last evening at the Oriental Hotel to Dr Müller, late of the Imperial Medical Department. Dinner and the health-drinking and speech-making being over by ten p.m., shortly after that hour the guests formed in procession, each one carrying a lighted torch. Escorted by the Bands of the German Frigate Hertha, and the Russian man-of-war Ascold, who relieved each other alternatively, the procession marched from No. 84 Main Street, via the Bund. to the German Club. When they arrived opposite that building they made a bonfire of their torches on the vacant grant opposite, and Dr Hilgendorf, on the part of the convives, delivered a valedictory address to Dr Müller, which was greeted with hearty cheers.” 52 Ishiguro, Kaikyū kyūjūnen, 157. 53 Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 456. 54 Hoffmann, “Die Heilkunde in Japan und Japanische Aerzte,” 25. 55 Ibid. 56 Ibid. 57 Ibid. 58 Letter from Kaiserlich Deutsche Minister Residentur in Japan to Bismarck, 26 August 1875, Bundesarchiv Berlin, “Aufhebung der deutsche Abtheilung an der polytechnischen Schule, Kaiseigakko in Yedo”, R/90163498, Eintritt deutscher Untertanen in japanische Dienste. Bd. 2. Okt 1873. – Dez. 1875, Bl. 165–70. 59 Letter from Holleben to Bülow, 20 September 1875, Bundesarchiv Berlin, R/901-63498, Eintritt deutscher Untertanen in japanische Dienste. Bd. 2.

182  Notes to pages 43–5

60

61

62

63

64

65

66 67 68 69 70

Okt 1873. – Dez. 1875, Bl. 177–80, “Inhalt: die deutsche Medicinschule in Yedo.” The quotation is from Bl. 178. Schultze report, Bundesarchiv Berlin, R/901-63499, Eintritt deutscher Untertanen in japanische Dienste. Bd. 3. Jan. 1876 – Dez. 1880. 63499, Bl. 123–9, “Notizen aus dem Bericht des Dr. Schultze über die Entwickelung der Medizinischen Akademie zu Tokio in der Zeit vom Januar 1875 bis Oktober 1877.” On “live machines,” the pejorative term that the Japanese used to refer to foreign employees, see, for instance, Akira Iriye and Edward Beauchamp, eds., Foreign Employees in Nineteenth-Century Japan (Boulder: Westview Press, 1990); and A.W. Burks, The Modernizers: Overseas Students, Foreign Employees, and Meiji Japan (Boulder: Westview Press, 1985). F. Ōtani, One Hundred Years of Health Progress in Japan (Tokyo: International Medical Foundation of Japan, 1971), 15. Quoted from Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 100. By 1884, the number of medical students amounted to 716. In contrast, there were only 341 students in three other faculties – law, science, and literature – combined. Throughout the late 1870s and early 1880s, medical students represented more than half or even two-thirds of the entire student body of the University of Tokyo. Tachibana, “Meiji yonen, Tōdai Igakubu wa gakusei no hachiwari o taigaku saseta,” 274. Schultze report, Bundesarchiv Berlin, “Bericht über die Entwicklung der medizinischen Akademie zu Tokio in der Zeit vom Januar 1875 bis Oktober 1877.” 63499, Bl. 123–30. According to Okada Kazuichirō (1864–1938), who took an entrance examination for the preparatory school in 1880, there were 600 applicants for 120 slots. Along with Japanese history, applicants were tested on basic mathematics, German composition, German grammar, and physical training. Out of the 120 new students, however, only 46 graduated. Umezawa Hikotarō, ed., Okada Kazuichirō sensei den (Tokyo: Nihon Iji Shinpōsha, 1943), 20–30. Tokyo Daigaku Igakubu hyakunenshi, 126 and 160. Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 89. Kira Shirō, Meijiki ni okeru doitsu igaku no juyō to fukyū: Tōkyō Daigaku Igakubu gaishi (Tokyo: Tsukijishokan, 2010), 100–2. Irisawa, Akamon kaiko, 7. In 1876, only a year after the establishment of the commuter system in Tokyo, four regional public medical schools were set up respectively in Urawa, Kanazawa, Fukui, and Tochigi, and the number grew until it reached a total of thirty-one in 1880. These regional public medical schools

Notes to pages 45–8 183

71

72 73

74 75

76 77 78 79

typically had graduates of Tokyo Medical School as their deans and heads of the attached hospitals. There is no doubt that this practice contributed to the consolidation of the power and prestige of Tokyo Medical School (essentially placing the University of Tokyo at the top of the power structure). Kira, Meijiki ni okeru doitsu igaku no juyō to fukyū, 103–7. Schultze himself was not beloved by Japanese students, as he was notorious for asking questions on examinations which had not been covered in his previous lectures. Kitasato organized a student group that adamantly protested against Schultze. Miyajima Mikinosuke, Kitasato Shibasaburō den (Tokyo: Kitasato Kenkyūjo, 1932), 21–2. James Bartholomew, misnaming Schultze “Wilhelm Schwartz,” interprets this act as “Kitasato’s first of several major triumphs over established authority”: “The Acculturation of Science in Japan: Kitasato Shibasaburō and the Japanese Bacteriological Community, 1885–1920,” 32. Tokyo Daigaku Igakubu hyakunenshi (Tokyo, 1967), 151–2. It has long been thought that it was the American Edward Sylvester Morse (1838–1925) who first introduced Darwinian theory to Japan in 1877. Michiko Yajima has now discovered that Hilgendorf lectured on evolution at Tokyo Medical School well before Morse by studying notes taken by Mori Ōgai: “Hilgendorf Predated Morse in Bringing Charles Darwin’s Theory of Evolution to Japan,” Historia Scientiarum: The International Journal of the History of Science Society of Japan 8, no. 2 (1998): 133–40. Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 92. The situation in Japan became much improved later on. According to Osawa Gakutaro’s lecture given at Naturforschenden Gesellschaft in Freiburg on 20 November 1895, about 2400 cadavers were available for dissection between 1873 and 1894, roughly one hundred for each year. Since there were about thirty students taking anatomy each year, it meant that three cadavers were available for each student: one for the study of muscles, one for blood vessels, and one for the nervous system. Osawa, “Zur Geschichte der Anatomie in Japan,” Anatomischer Anzeiger: Centralblatt für die gesamte wissenschaftliche Anatomie 11, nos. 16–17 (1896): 502. The dissection itself must have been an unpleasant experience as most of the cadavers were of beheaded former prisoners. Hoshi Shinichi, Sofu Koganei Yoshikiyo no ki (Tokyo: Kawade Shobō Shinsha, 1974), 66. Vianden, Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin, 94. Ibid., 94. Ibid., 96. For Hana Baelz, see Ume Kajima, Hana Baelz: Die Frau des Japanarztes Erwin Baelz (Stuttgart: Deutsches Verlags-Anstalt, 1978). For the Japanese

184  Notes to pages 48–50

80

81

82

83 84

85 86 87 88

original, Berutsu Hana Eruwin Fon Berutsu fujin no shōgai (Tokyo: Kajima Kenkyūjo Shuppankai, 1972). See also Masumi Schmidt-Muraki, ‘Hana Berutsu’ e no tabi (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1993). Baelz’s extensive research on the efficacy of the Kusatsu hot spring made this small town a world-famous spa town. In recognition of Baelz’s contribution, the city of Kusatsu dedicated a monument to Baelz in 1935. Ichikawa Zenzaburō, Berutsu to Kusatsu onsen (Kusatsu-machi: Kusatu Berutsu Kyōkai, 1980). See, for instance, Harald Kleinschmidt, Japan, Baelz und Württemberg: Aspekte der kulturellen und wirtschaftlichen Beziehungen zwischen Württemberg und Japan, 1861–1980 (Stuttgart: Verlag in der villa, 1992). According to his diary, the contract details were as follows: (1) appointment as a professor of physiology and internal medicine at the Imperial Medical Academy of Tokyo; (2) term, two years; (3) salary, 16,200 marks per annum, payable monthly in gold; (4) free voyage out and home, free quarters; and (5) right of private practice. Erwin Baelz, Awakening Japan: The Diary of a German Doctor. Erwin Baelz (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1974 [1932]), 4. The actual contract is also available at Tokyo University on microfilm. See Gaikoku kyōshi issai no ken, 1877, Tokyo University. Bundesarchiv-Berlin, R/901-63499, Eintritt deutscher Untertanen in japanische Dienste.Bd. 3. Jan. 1876 – Dez. 1880, 63499, Bl. 12. Letter of Japanese Legation (Mr Aoki), Berlin, 4 February 1878, to the German Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Bundesarchiv-Berlin, R/901-63499, Eintritt deutscher Untertanen in japanische Dienste. Bd, 3. Jan. 1876 – Dez. 1880, 63499, Bl. 132. Diary entry of 1 January 1876; Baelz, Awakening Japan, 4. Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 329. Suzuki Hisashi, “Koganei Yoshikiyo sensei (1858–1944) to Erwin von Baelz hakushi (1858–1913),” Jinruigaku zasshi 82, no. 1 (1974): 5. Otto Schmiedel describes one anecdote which he himself observed, though the veracity of it is disputable: “Three weeks before, a poor woman had been sent to Baelz from the interior, unable either to see or to walk. She had been in this pitiable condition for five years. Then her relatives heard of this wonder-working doctor in Tokyo … Investigation had shown that there was no organic disease, and that it was only through hysteria that she had lost the use of her organs for so many years. After taking the matter to his assistant, Baelz explained to the woman: ‘Twenty days from now, at two o’clock in the afternoon, you will be able to see and walk once more’ … At length the time had come. The assistant, a number

Notes to pages 50–4 185

89 90 91 92 93 94 95

of students, and I myself were present … Baelz made a little speech in Japanese: ‘The time of illness is over. The day of healing has come. In a moment you will be able to walk.’ Then, in a loud voice he called to her: ‘Come here!’ To the assistant, he said in German: ‘Stand aside, gentlemen!’ Then, limping a little, the woman walked to him, some twenty or thirty paces.” Schmiedel, Die Deutschen in Japan (Leipzig: K.F. Koehler, 1920). Bowers, When the Twain Meet, 91. Ibid., 106–7. Ibid., 126. Diary entry of 25 November 1876; Baelz, Awakening Japan, 25–6. Baelz, Awakening Japan, 161. Diary entry of 18 April 1900; Baelz, Awakening Japan, 123. Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 457.

Chapter Three: Socialized Intellect 1 Karen Brazell, “Mori Ōgai in Germany. A Translation of Fumizukai and Excerpts from Doitsu Nikki,” Monumenta Nipponica 26, nos. 1–2 (1971): 81. Mori Ōgai’s German diary, Doitsu nikki, is also translated into German: Deutschlandtagebuch 1884–1888, trans. Heike Schöche (Tübingen: Konkursbuch, 1992). The original Japanese version is included in his collective works: Doitsu nikki, Ōgai zenshū, vol. 20 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1933). 2 Brazell, “Mori Ōgai in Germany,” 82. 3 It was not just the birth of modern Japanese literature that Ōgai marked with his first novel, “Dancing Girl” (Maihime, 1890). Some scholars such as Christopher Hill argue that the novel “incorporates a political argument of its own … the necessity of nationality as a primary form of subjective identification and the illegitimacy of alternative identities … [and] ultimately serves to cordon off alternative identities that might compete with nationality in the Meiji-era project to transform popular consciousness”; “Mori Ōgai’s Resentful Narrator: Trauma and the National Subject in ‘The Dancing Girl,’” Positions 10, no. 2 (Fall 2002): 366. 4 According to the “Regulations Concerning Study Abroad” (Kaigai Ryūgaku Kisoku) of December 1869, “before departure, the student was to visit the local shrine, pledge that he would return the debts he owed to the country and never bring disgrace upon it, and have a ritual libation of sacred sake.” Tomihide Kashioka, “Meiji Japan’s Study Abroad Program: Modernizing Elites and Reference Societies,” PhD diss. (Duke University, 1982), 43.

186  Notes to page 55 5 According to James Conte’s calculation, the Meiji government issued 11,248 passports for study abroad between 1868 and 1902. Between 1868 and 1896, 11% of the study passports were issued for government-­ sponsored students. About 57% of all passports for both governmental and private students were issued to students heading to the United States. James T. Conte, “Meiji Ryūgakusei: Overseas Study in the Development of Japan, 1867–1902,” a paper presented at the twenty-eighth annual meeting of the Association for Asian Studies (Toronto, Canada, 1976). Quoted in Ardath W. Burks, “Japan’s Outreach: The Ryūgakusei,” in Burks, ed., The Modernizers: Overseas Students, Foreign Employees, and Meiji Japan (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1985), 152. 6 Burks, The Modernizers. The Japanese translation of this book appears as Ardath W. Burks and Umetani Noboru, eds., Kindaika no suishinshatachi: Ryūgakusei oyatoi gaikokujin to Meiji (Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 1990). 7 Ann Bowman Jannetta, “From Physician to Bureaucrat: The Case of Nagayo Sensai,” in Helen Hardacre with Adam L. Kern, eds., New Directions in the Study of Meiji Japan (New York, Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1997), 151–60. 8 Yukiko Hayase, “The Career of Gotō Shinpei: Japan’s Statesman of Research, 1857–1929,” PhD diss. (Florida State University, 1974); Hoshi Ryōichi, Gotō Shinpei den: Mirai o mitsumete ikita Meijijin (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2005); Mikuriya Takashi, Jidai no senkakusha Gotō Shinpei 1857–1929 (Tokyo: Fujiwara Shoten, 2004). 9 James Bartholomew, “The Acculturation of Science in Japan: Kitasato Shibasaburo and the Japanese Bacteriological Community, 1885–1920,” PhD diss. (Stanford University, 1971); Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan: Building a Research Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989) 10 Thomas LaMarre, “Bacterial Culture and Linguistic Colonies: Mori Rintarō’s Experiments with History, Science, and Language,” Positions 6, no. 3 (1998): 597–635; LaMarre, “Science, History, and Culture in the Late Meiji Period: Mori Rintarō’s Experiments,” in Hardacre and Kern, eds., New Directions in the Study of Meiji Japan, 60–89; Detlef Schauwecker, “Aspekte der Medizingesichte Japans im 16.–19. Jhdt. und der Deutschlandaufenthalt des japanischen Schriftstellers und Mediziners Ōgai Mori in den Jahren 1884–1888,” Sudhoffs Archiv 66, no. 4 (1982): 350–89. 11 It is interesting to note that Miyajima is contrasting this earlier generation of foreign students with those of later generations. He wrote: “What memories would students bring back now-a-days, who take a comfortable voyage as cabin passengers like peers, when they return from their

Notes to pages 55–8 187

12 13 14

15 16

17 18

19

20 21 22 23

luxurious sojourn of several years in Europe or America? Dances, cardplaying, and so on? We are amazed at finding out what they bring back in their heads, which are adorned with the latest Paris or New-York style of hair-trimming.” Mikinosuke Miyajima, Robert Koch and Shibasaburo Kitasato (Geneva: Sonor, 1931), 18. Morita Yoshichika, Gekai Satō Susumu – Kindai Nihon no ayumi mesu de sasaeru (Hitachiota: Hitachiota-shi, 1981), 88. “Japanische Angriffe gegen deutsche Universitäten,” Tsingtauer Neueste Nachrichten, 1 November 1907, no. 254. GStA Pk, I. HA Rep. 76 Kultusministerium, Tit. X. Nr. 6. Bd. 4. Gesuche von Ausländer um Benutzung Preußischer Universitätsinstituts, 1860– 1921, Bl. 314. Terrence Jackson, “Socialized Intellect: The Cultural Network of Rangaku in Late Tokugawa Japan,” PhD diss. (Indiana University, 2004). According to Mori Ōgai’s autobiographical novel The Wild Goose, there existed a guidebook for studying in Germany written by Shibata Shōkei (1850–1910), a professor of medicine at the University of Tokyo, though I could not locate the actual book. “Yesterday I went to see Professor Shibata Shōkei. He’s helped me in the past and I wanted to tell him about my trip. He gave me a guidebook he wrote for people going abroad … It’s not for sale. He says he just hands it out to yokels like me.” Mori Ōgai, The Wild Goose, trans. Burton Watson (Ann Arbor: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan, 1995). The original Japanese version, titled Gan, appeared in 1911. H.J. Jones, Live Machines: Hired Foreigners and Meiji Japan (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1980), 145. Umetani Noboru, Oyatoi gaikokujin, vol. 1: Gaisetsu (Tokyo: Kashima Shuppan Kai, 1968). Quoted in Kashioka, “Meiji Japan’s Study Abroad Program,” 15. Refer to Watanabe Minoru, Kindai Nihon kaigai ryūgakuseishi (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1977–8); and Ishizuki Minoru, Kindai Nihon no kaigai ryūgakushi (Tokyo: Chūō Kōron, [1972], 1992). See also Burks, ed., The Modernizers. Andrew Cobbing, The Satsuma Students in Britain: Japan’s Early Search for the “Essence of the West” (Richmond, Surrey: Japan Library, 2000). John William Bennett, In Search of Identity (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1958). Ishizuki, Kindai Nihon no kaigai ryūgakushi, 62–85. See also Cobbing, The Satsuma Students in Britain. Andrew Gordon, A Modern History of Japan: From Tokugawa Times to the Present (New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 79.

188  Notes to pages 59–61 24 Minoru Ishizuki, “Overseas Study by Japanese in the Early Meiji Period,” in Burks, ed., The Modernizers, 161–86. The term “steady stage” is my own term, not Ishizuki’s. 25 Ishizuki, “Overseas Study,” 170. 26 Kashioka, “Meiji Japan’s Study Abroad Program,” 46–50. See also the appendix of Morikawa Jun’s book, Doitsu vissenshafuto ishoku no tansho ni tsuite: Kanpi ryūgakusei no doitsu haken made (Hiroshima: Hiroshima Shūdō Daigaku Sōgō Kenkyūjo, 1993), 69 and 105–15. 27 1872 (12.7%), 1873 (11.7%), 1874 (10.1%), 1875 (10.2%), and 1876 (8.4%). Ishizuki, Kindai Nihon no kaigai ryūgakushi, 224. 28 Burks, “Japan’s Outreach: The Ryūgakusei,” 151. 29 Kashioka, “Meiji Japan’s Study Abroad Program,” 51. 30 “Rules for Supervising Students Abroad“ (Kaigai Ryūgakusei Kantoku Shote), June 1874; “Regulations Concerning Students Abroad on Governmental Loans” (Monbushō Taihi Ryūgakusei Kisoku), May 1875; “Provisions Concerning Students Abroad on Governmental Loans” (Taihi Ryūgakusei Joki), July 1878; and “Rules for Governmental Scholarship for Study Abroad” (Kanpi Kaigai Ryūgakusei Kosoku), 1882. 31 Ishizuki, “Overseas Study,” 176. 32 Ibid., 176–7; Kashioka, “Meiji Japan’s Study Abroad Program,” 65–6. 33 Between 1875 and 1880, the annual average was 4.1 recipients. It increased slightly to 5.5 recipients between 1881 and 1895. It then increased dramatically to 30.7 recipients beginning in 1896. Kashioka, “Meiji Japan’s Study Abroad Program,” 67. 34 Of course, there were exceptions. Although he was the third man, for instance, Aoyama Tanemichi was selected in 1882 along with the numbertwo student, as the number-one student had been known to have an excessive drinking habit. Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan, 70. 35 Tokyo Nichi-Nichi, 4 June 1875. Quoted in Ishizuki, “Overseas Study,” 177. 36 A liberal-arts-oriented education culture, geographical proximity to Japan compared to Europe, and the relative familiarity of the English language made the United States an ideal choice for private students. Kashioka, “Meiji Japan’s Study Abroad Program,” 107–8. 37 Ishizuki, Kindai Nihon no kaigai ryūgakushi, 268. 38 Kokumin no tomo 1 (1887): 18–19. 39 All secondary materials claim that there were nine first students, but according to the memoir of Ōsawa Kenji, thirteen students were ordered to study medical science abroad. Everyone, of course, decided to go to Germany. Ōsawa Kenji, Tōei chūgo (Tokyo: Tōdai Seirigaku Dōsōkai, 1979 [1928]), 22–3.

Notes to page 61 189 40 Rudolf Hartmann, Japanische Studenten an der Berlin Universität, 1870–1914 (Berlin: Mori-Ōgai-Gedenkstätte der Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin, 2000), 3. 41 Nihon Joikai, Nihon joishi: Tsuiho (Tokyo: Nihon Joikai, 1991), 123–8. I would like to thank Dr Sumiko Otsubo for this reference. See also Matsumura Yoshimoto, Meiji bunmei kaiga no hanabana – Nihon ryūgakusei retsuden 3 (Tokyo: Bungeisha, 2004), 110–34. 42 For instance, Nagaoka Hantarō (1865–1950) changed his major from physics to medicine, while Nagai Nagayoshi (1845–1929) changed from medicine to chemistry. 43 There are at least three fairly accurate yet preliminary name lists that have been made available by pioneering scholars. Using Berlin University’s official matriculation registers, Rudolf Hartmann compiled the names, majors, and Berlin addresses of 678 Japanese students who officially registered at Berlin University between 1870 and 1914. Using exactly the same registration information, Heike Noll also collected the names of Japanese medical students registered during the same period. Unfortunately, however, both of these preliminary name lists based on official registers are quite sloppy in counting the numbers of Japanese medical students: Hartmann claims that there were 279 Japanese medical students, yet he failed to include eleven such students, and mis-categorized three others. Noll gives a total number of 284, but she counted ten names twice and did not include seventeen Japanese students in her calculations. As such, these lists need to be compared against a massive and most comprehensive name list compiled by Michael Rauck in 1994. Collecting students’ registration information not only from university archives of Germany, Austria, and Switzerland, but also from available Japanese name registers, including Jinji kōshinroku (1903), Who’s Who in Japan (1912), and several universities’ alumni lists (dōsōkai), Rauck compiled names of Japanese students who stayed in Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Switzerland between 1865 and 1914. A massive cornucopia of information, this survey includes Japanese students’ names, dates of birth and death, majors, occupations before coming to Europe and after going back to Japan, education in Japan, funding sources, and periods of stay. Although it does not provide any meaningful statistical analysis of these precious data – notably, not even the total number of Japanese students – this survey at least provides the essential raw materials for a cliometrical inquiry. Hartmann, Japanische Studenten an der Berlin Universität; Heike Noll, “Japanische Medizinstudenten an der Königlichen Friedrichs-Wilhelm-Universität zu Berlin von 1870 bis 1939,” Diplomarbeit aus dem Institut für Geschichte der Medizin der

190  Notes to pages 61–2 Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin Bereich Medizin (Charité) (Berlin, 1990); Michael Rauck, Japanese in the German Language and Cultural Area, 1865– 1914: A General Survey (Tokyo: Tokyo Metropolitan University, 1994). 44 Recently, historian Pierre-Yves Donzé claimed that he identified a total of 763 Japanese medical doctors who went abroad – not only to Europe but also the United States – between 1853 and 1912. His number, based entirely on Japanese biographical sources such as Nihon iseki roku (1925), Nihon i daikan (1928), and Nihon igaku hakase roku (1954), however, grossly underestimates the number of Japanese medical men. Donzé, “Studies Abroad by Japanese Doctors: A Prosopographic Analysis of the Nameless Practitioners, 1862–1912,” Social History of Medicine 23, no. 2 (2010): 244–60. 45 Hartmann counted only “pure” medical students, but I think two students who studied pharmacy – Furuya Tsunejirō and Imai Genshirō – should be included in this category. 46 The breakdown of Japanese students at Berlin University is as follows: Philosophy (48), Political Science (35), Chemistry (34), Economics (28), Physics (19), Finance (17), History (15), Mathematics (13), Philology (11), Education (10), Natural Sciences (9), and Geography (6). Hartmann, Japanische Studenten an der Berlin Universität, 77. 47 Compared with Takahashi Mizuko, Urata Tada, who came to Germany in 1903 after having researched for two years at Kitasato’s Institute, left almost immediately for Marburg once she realized that women were not allowed to study medicine in Berlin. In Marburg, Urata became in 1905 the first doctor of medicine, not only of Japanese women, but of all women in the history of the university. On Urata Tada, see Aeka Ishihara, “Japanische Medizinerinnen in Deutschland 1890–1905 Mizuko TAKAHASHI und Tada URATA,” Keiō Gijuku Daigaku. Hiyoshi kiyō: Doitsugo-doitsubungaku 49 (2012): 75–101; Ishihara Aeka, Dokutorutachi no funtōki: gēte ga michibiku nichi-doku igaku kōryū (Tokyo: Keiō Gijuku Daigaku Shuppankai, 2012), 172–216. 48 Thomas Neville Bonner, American Doctors and German Universities: A Chapter in International Intellectual Relations, 1870–1914 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1963), 39. Bonner further estimates that the number of Americans studying medicine in Berlin must have been around 100 per year during the peak years. Ibid., 32. 49 John Harley Warner, Against the Spirit of System: The French Impulse in Nineteenth-Century American Medicine (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998); Russell M. Jones, “American Doctors and the Parisian Medical World, 1830–1840,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 47 (1975): 40–65; Jones, “American Doctors in Paris, 1820–1861: A Statistical Profile,” Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 25 (1970): 143–57.

Notes to pages 62–4 191 50 Tokyo Daigaku Igakubu hyakunenshi, 262. 51 At the peak of this growth in 1879, there were over 20 schools throughout Japan. Most of them, however, were of second-tier quality, with only about 20 students, and the schools themselves had disappeared by 1883. Even elite private schools such as Keiō Gijuku Igakkō and Meiji Igakkō could accommodate only about 100 students and had only about nine faculty members. Kira Shirō, Meijiki ni okeru doitsu igaku no juyō to fukyū: Tōkyō Daigaku Igakubu gaishi (Tokyo: Tsukijishokan, 2010), 106–8, 125. 52 Horatio R. Bigelow, “Berlin as a Medical Center – A Guide for American Practitioners and Students,” New England Medical Monthly: A Monthly Journal Devoted to Medicine and Surgery 4 (October 1884–October 1885): 372. 53 Baedekers Reisehandbücher. Nordamerika. Die Vereinigten Staaten nebst einem Ausflug nach Mexiko, Handbuch für Reisende (Leipzig, 1904), xxii. 54 Morita, Gekai Satō Susumu, 85. 55 Tomimura Tarō, Hagiwara Sankei no ryūgaku (Tokyo: Gōgakusha, 1981), 114–15. 56 Mori departed from Yokohama on 24 August 1884 with nine other Japanese students and arrived in Marseille on 7 October. Nakai Yoshiyuki, Ōgai ryūgaku shimatsu (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1999), 2. 57 He departed from Japan on 17 November 1892 and arrived in Berlin on 26 February 1894. Tamai, Karawanen-Reise in Sibirien von Kisak Tamai aus Japan. Mit Anhang: Weltreise mehrerer Japaner über Sibirien von 100 Jahren (Berlin: K. Siegismund, 1898). His travel and the publication of the book was also reported in Berlin’s Vossische Zeitung, no. 19, 13 January 1898. About Tamai Kisak, see Kawamura Shigeichi, “Tamai Kisaku,” in Japanisch-Deutsche Zentrum Berlin, ed., Brückenbauer: Pioniere des japanisch-deutschen Kulturaustausches (Munich: Iudicium, 2005), 164–73. 58 One semester (32.31% or 94 students), two semesters (28.57% or 84), three (14.95% or 44), four (10.20% or 30), five (5.44% or 16), six (3.4% or 10), seven (2.3% or 7), eight (1.7% or 5), and nine (1.02% or 3). 59 Die Gartenlaube also confirms this trend. According to the 1872 article “Japan in Berlin,” there were around 70 Japanese students – regardless of their fields of study – in Berlin and their ages ranged between 18 and 24. “Japan in Berlin,” Die Gartenlaube (1872), 568. 60 They are Satō Susumu (1874), Ikeda Kensai (1875), Nagai Nagayoshi (1881), Miura Moriji (1884), Katō Terumaro (1886), and Asahara Shinjirō (1898). Hartmann, Japanische Studenten an der Berlin Universität, 83–4. 61 Morikawa Jun, “Doitsu igaku no shuyō katei – Myunhen daigaku ryūgakusei o chūshin to shite,” Kyōikugaku kenkyū 52, no. 4 (1985): 374. 62 Rauck, Japanese in the German Language and Cultural Area, 14. 63 Hartmann, Japanische Studenten an der Berlin Universität, 84.

192  Notes to pages 64–8 64 Noll, “Japanische Medizinstudenten,” 27. 65 Rauck, Japanese in the German Language and Cultural Area, 14. 66 Morikawa, “Doitsu igaku no shuyō katei,” 381. Erhard Grundwald also agrees with this observation to a certain extent. See his article “Myunhen daigaku o chūshin to shita igaku ni okeru doku-nichi kankei, 1883 nen kara 1914 nen made,” trans. Betubu Akirō, Daigaku ronshū (Hiroshima Daigaku) 21 (1991): 317–28. 67 Morikawa, “Doitsu igaku no shuyō katei,” 379–80. 68 As we learned in chapter 2 of this book, there were distinctions even among graduates from Tokyo University. Even though he earned a doctoral degree from Germany with a good mark, for instance, Nagamatsu Atsusuke, a botanist, could not get a faculty position because he had been only an “elective” student at Tokyo University before he went to Germany to study botany. By contrast, Matsumura Jinzō successfully secured a faculty position at Tokyo University, though he could not finish his education in Germany due to his lack of German proficiency. 19 Würzburger Briefe des vereinsamten Studenten Jinzo Matsumura (1856–1928) an seine Familie in Japan (1886–1887), edited and annotated by Harmut Gimmler and Yoshio Masuda (Würzburg: Druck Schmitt & Meyer, 2001), 13. 69 Hayase, “The Career of Gotō Shinpei,” 6. 70 Ibid., 20. 71 Ibid., 20–1. 72 “Taidan, Watashi no arunda michi – Fudaki Kenzō hakushi no hito to gakumon,” Nihon iji shinpō 2023 (1963): 110. Quoted from Morikawa, “Doitsu igaku no shuyō katei,” 381. 73 Hayase, “The Career of Gotō Shinpei,” 21. 74 Kashioka, “Meiji Japan’s Study Abroad Program,” 71. 75 See Benjamin Carter Hett, “The ‘Captain of Köpenick’ and the Transformation of German Criminal Justice, 1891–1914,” Central European History 36 (2003): 1–43. 76 Yomiuri shinbun, 7 October 1901, 4. 77 Bonner, Becoming a Physician, 313. 78 Nihon Joikai, Nihon joishi: Tsuiho, 123–8; Matsumura, Meiji bunmei kaika no hanabana – Nihon ryūgakusei reiten 3, 110–34. 79 Nihon Joikai, Nihon joishi: Tsuiho, 127. 80 Gerhard Jaeckel, Die Charité: Die Geschichte eines Weltzentrums der Medizin von 1710 bis zur Gegenwart (Frankfurt am Main: Ullstein Sachbuch, 1999). 81 Rolf Winau, Medizin in Berlin. Mit einem Geleitwort des Regierenden Bürgermeisters von Berlin, Eberhard Diepgen (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1987), 172–274. 82 Bigelow, “Berlin as a Medical Center,” 3.

Notes to pages 68–70 193 83 Ibid., 4. 84 Morita, Gekai Satō Susumu, 87. The situation in Japan improved significantly between 1873 and 1894. According to Osawa Gakutaro’s lecture given at Naturforschenden Gesellschaft in Freiburg on 20 November 1895, about 2400 cadavers were available for dissection between 1873 and 1894: “Zur Geschichte der Anatomie in Japan,” Anatomischer Anzeiger: Centralblatt für die gesamte wissenschaftliche Anatomie 11, nos. 16–17 (1896): 502. 85 Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan, 69. 86 Fritz Munk, Das medizinische Berlin um die Jahrhundertwende (Munich: Urban & Schwarzenberg, 1979), 123. 87 “Japan in Berlin,” Die Gartenlaube (1872), 569. 88 Bigelow, “Berlin as a Medical Center,” 372. The breakdown is as follows: “(1) Room rent, six months, at $4.00 per month, including service – $24; (2) Coffee and rolls in the morning, at 87 cents per month, for six months – $5.22; (3) Dinner [sic] at 2 P.M. (corn beef with potatoes, or Dutch beef steak, or roast and bread, 40 pfge [pfennigs]; beer, 10 pfge; waiter, 10 pfge) – for six months at 60 pfge per day – about $4.48; (4) Lunch [sic] at 7 P.M., beer, 10 pfge; sandwich, 15 pfge; waiter, 5 pfge; 30 pfge per day, for six months – $2.24; (5) washing, at 1 mark, 50 pfge per week, twenty-four weeks, $9.56.” 89 Ibid., 373. It was relatively cheaper to live in a province. Matsumura Jinzō in Würzburg paid around 25 yen per month for rent, food, heating fuel, etc. Matsumura, 19 Würzburger Briefe, letter of 2 March 1886 to his father. 90 Entry of 23 October 1884, Doitsu nikki. 91 Hasegawa Tsutomu, Tokyo Teidai Igakubu sori: Ikeda Kensai den (Tokyo: Shin Jinbutsu Ōraisha, 1989), 117–18 92 Ikeda Kensai, Puroisen koku Berurin: 1870–1873 (Tokyo: Saiundō, 1984), 35. This book is a collection of letters written by Ikeda Kensai while he was in Berlin. 93 For instance, the letters of Matsumura Jinzō are full of references to chronic money shortage. 94 Stephanie Irrgang, Peregrinatio academica: Wanderungen und Karrieren von Gelehrten der Universitaeten Rostock, Greifswald, Trier und Mainz im 15. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2002). 95 Bonner, American Doctors and German Universities, 14. 96 Bartholomew also acknowledges this factor as one of the centripetal forces of German medical institutions; The Formation of Science in Japan, 72. 97 Bigelow, “Berlin as a Medical Center,” 370. 98 According to Noll’s estimation, students in Berlin visited Freiburg (5.8%), Strasburg (5.8%), Munich (4.8%), Würzburg (4.8%), Heidelberg (4.8%), Leipzig (2.9%), and Göttingen (2.9%); “Japanische Medizinstudenten,” 27.

194  Notes to pages 70–4 99 “Zadankai. Miura Kinnosuke sensei o shinobu,” Nihon iji shinpō 1652 (1955). 100 Various exhibitions on medical topics were another venue of education, the hygienic exhibition of 1883 in Berlin being the most notable. It was here that Shibata Tasuguyoshi (1850–1910) of the Ministry of the Interior learned most contemporary hygienic theory and decided to transport valuable equipment for experimental research on his return trip to Japan. Christian Oberländer, “The Rise of Western ‘Scientific Medicine’ in Japan: Bacteriology and Beriberi,” in Morris Low, ed., Building a Modern Japan: Science, Technology, and Medicine in the Meiji Era and Beyond (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 27. 101 Mori Ōgai, Deutschlandtagebuch 1884–1888, 192–3. Entries of 2 and 27 May 1887. 102 Johanna Bleker, “Medical Students – To the Bed-side or to the Laboratory? The Emergence of Laboratory-Training in German Medical Education, 1870–1900,” Clio Medica 21 (1987–8), 35–46. 103 Patrick Schilling Dowd, “Rudolf Virchow and the Science of Humanity,” PhD diss. (University of Pittsburgh, 1999). 104 Paul Weindling, “Medicine and Modernization: The Social History of German Health and Medicine,” History of Science 24 (1986): 277. 105 Refer to the seminal work by Paul Weindling: Health, Race, and German Politics between National Unification and Nazism, 1870–1945 (Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989). Though it mainly deals with the Weimar period, Detlev Peukert’s work is a pivotal work claiming the German “pathologies of modernity”: The Weimar Republic: The Crisis of Classical Modernity, trans. Richard Deveson (New York: Hill and Wang, 1993). 106 Nagayo Sensai, Shōkō shi shi (Tokyo, 1902), 133–4. Quoted in Jannetta, “From Physician to Bureaucrat,” 159. 107 William Johnston, The Modern Epidemic: A History of Tuberculosis in Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 179. 108 Miyajima Mikinosuke, Kitasato Shibasaburō den (Tokyo: Kitasato Kenkyūjo, 1932), 37. 109 Tomita Hiroshi, ed., Umi o koeta Nihon jinmei jiten (Tokyo: Nichigai Asoshiētsu, 1985). 110 Matsumura, 19 Würzburger Briefe, 29; letter of 15 June 1886 to his father. 111 Mori Ōgai, Daydreams, 169. 112 Rodney Glisan, Two Years in Europe (New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1887), 317–18.

Notes to pages 74–7 195 1 13 Morita, Gekai Satō Susumu, 87 114 Matsumura, 19 Würzburger Briefe, 42; letter of 30 October 1887 to his father. 115 “Hashimoto Haru,” in Tomita, ed., Umi o koeta Nihon jinmei jiten. See also Miyaoka Kenji, Tabigeinin shimatsusho: Ikoku henro (Tokyo: Shūdōsha, 1971). 116 Mori Ōgai, Daydreams, 170. 117 Ikeda Kensai, Kaikoroku (Tokyo, 1917); Sapporo Izumi, Meiji Tennō no jii Ikeda Kensai (Tokyo, 1991). 118 Tomimura, Hagiwara Sankei no ryūgaku. 119 Nagai Hisomu, “Onshi Ōsawa Kenji sensei,” Nihon iji shinpō 1268 (1948); Ōsawa, Tōei chūgo. 120 Kanao Seizō, Nagai Nagayoshi den (Tokyo: Nihon Yakugakkai, 1960); Katalog zur Ausstellung “Dr. Phil. Wilhelm Nagayoshi Nagai (1845–1929). Eine japanish-deutsche Gründergeschichte” (Berlin: Japanisch-Deutsches Zentrum Berlin, 2000). 121 “Zadankai, Ōgata Masanori sensei o shinobu,“ Nihon iji shinpō 930 (1940); “Kitasato Ōgata ryō-sensei,” Nihon iji shinpō 1415 (1941); “Ōgata Masanori sensei tanjō hyakunen kinen zadankai,” Nihon iji shinpō 1507 (1943). 122 Japanese students staying in smaller German cities felt lonely. For instance, the letters written by the aforementioned Matsumura Jinzō are full of loneliness and homesickness. 123 Life expectancy in Germany in 1900 was forty-seven years. Angus Maddison, The World Economy: A Millennial Perspective (Paris: OECD, 2001), table 1-5a. According to Population Profile of the United States (1995), published by the U.S. Census Bureau, the average life expectancy for an American in 1900 was also forty-seven years. 124 Other celebrities included Yamagata Isaburō (governor of Kwantung Leased Territory), and Fukushima Yasumasa (1852–1919, vice chief of the General Staff Office). According to Portraits of Modern Japanese Historical Figures, a website hosted at the National Diet Library of Japan, Fukushima displayed his skill in collecting information and “was particularly known for traveling alone on horseback in 1892, taking one year and four months from Berlin to Vladivostok, with the objective of inspecting the situation of the Trans-Siberian Railway construction.” 125 Japan und China 2 (1910): 27–8. 126 There were many other festive occasions. For example, in January 1899, there was a big party celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the boarding house. Flowers and congratulatory letters arrived from throughout the world (for instance, Switzerland, Russia, the United States, and Japan); Ost-Asien, Monatsschrift für Handel, Industrie, Politik, Wissenschaft, Kunst,

196  Notes to pages 77–80 etc. 10 (January 1899): 459. Again, in June 1903, there was another big party celebrating the eightieth birthday of Ms. Lagerström; Ost-Asien 64 (July 1903): 167–8. In terms of her actual age, however, there must have been some confusion. She celebrated her ninetieth birthday in 1910, but her eightieth birthday was in 1903, not 1900. The document from Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preussischer Kulturbesitz substantiates that she was born on 10 June 1823, thus placing her eightieth birthday in 1903. I Rep. 176 VI Nr. L256. Adelsakte Lagerstroem, Bl. 97. 127 Actually, she made frequent moves within the central district of Berlin: 1894, Englischestr. 23 c. Mtr; 1895, Tauentzienstr. 10; 1900, Passauerstr. 3; 1904, Joachimsthalerstr. 43; 1905, Kurf. Damm 212 b/Schmidt; 1906.10.08, Uhlandstr. 182 b/Roth; 1910, Wilmersdorf, Kaiser Allee 157. I Rep. 176 VI Nr. L256. Adelsakte Lagerstroem, Bl. 93, Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preussischer Kulturbesitz. 128 See “Ueber das erste japanische Heim in Berlin,” Ost-Asien 1, no. 2 (May 1898): 75. 129 The title of his dissertation, filed on 10 August 1874, is Über Durchfall bei Kindern. 130 In fact, Satō Susumu had three letters of introduction written by Max von Brandt, then consul of the Northern German Confederation and Prussia in Yokohama: the letters were addressed respectively to Bismarck, the German consul in New York, and the brother of Max von Brandt in Berlin. Tsuboya Suisai, ed., Igaku hakushi Satō Susumu sensei jiden (Tokyo: Konno Shūsaku, 1899), 24–5. Satō initially went to the brother of Max von Brandt, a high military official, but they could not communicate with each other. As a solution, they visited the Dutch embassy in Berlin for interpretation help. Morita, Gekai Satō Susumu, 79 and 85. 131 Igaku hakushi Satō Susumu sensei jiden, 30. 132 Ibid., 31–2. 133 “Japan in Berlin,” Die Gartenlaube (1872), 568. 134 After living six years at Holzendorf’s, Nagai moved to Lagerström’s due to the death of Frau Holzendorf. Annette Lepenies, “Eine japanischdeutsche Gründergeschichte: Dr. Phil. Wilhelm Nagayoshi Nagai (1845–1929),” Katalog zur Ausstellung “Dr. Phil. Wilhelm Nagayoshi Nagai (1845–1929). Eine japanish-deutsche Gründergeschichte” (Berlin: JapanischDeutsches Zentrum Berlin, 2000), 68. 135 Hoshi, Sofu Koganei Yoshikiyo no ki, 78. 136 Because medical students at Tokyo University – except those in “expedited courses” – were educated entirely in German, they were far better than other Japanese students in terms of linguistic capability. Matsumura came

Notes to pages 80–8 197 to Germany in the mid-1880s, but he could not master German language at all, and had to continue to rely on his Japanese friends. Matsumura, 19 Würzburger Briefe, 22–3, 25 March 1886 letter to his father. 137 Irisawa, Akamon kaiko, 22. 138 Ibid., 24. 139 Sazanami Iwaya, Briefe eines Japaners aus Deutschland übersetzt von Dr. A. Gramatzky mit einem Begleitwort und Anmerkungen herausgegeben von Pfarrer Dr. H. Haas (Bremem, 1904), 19–20. 140 Lepenies, “Eine japanisch-deutsche Gründergeschichte,” 68. 141 It is unclear when and how this actual organization and name came about. Mori Ōgai wrote in his diary that he first attended this society on 29 May 1888. I could not find any reference to this society in the 1870s. 142 Kanai Shizuka, Mori Ōgai’s protagonist in his autobiographical novel Vita Sexualis, remembers the café he frequented in Berlin. “He remembered a small coffeehouse at a spot where one turns west along the Unter den Linden in Berlin.” Vita Sexualis, trans. Kazuji Ninomiya and Sanford Goldsten (Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle Co., 1972), 147. The original Japanese version was published in 1909. 143 Diary entry of 29 May 1888. Mori Ōgai, Deutschlandtagebuch 1884–1888, 193. 144 “Yamatokwai,” in Mori Rintarō, Japan und Seine Gesundheitspflege (Tokyo: 1911), 20–3. 145 Ibid., 21. 146 As to the insistence of Mori Rintarō on using German with his fellow countrymen, Helen Hopper claims Mori did not believe that Japanese language could convey complex and scientific meaning. Thus, to Mori, “the ‘logical’ foreign language seemed best to chasten and cajole his fellow countrymen into recognizing the importance of their national origin and accepting the burden that nationality placed upon them – to expound the glories of their homeland and defend their nation from slanderous misrepresentation within their host country.” Helen Marlys Hopper, “The Conflict between Japanese Tradition and Western Learning in the Meiji Intellectual Mori Ōgai (1862–1922),” PhD diss. (Washington University, St Louis, 1976), 36. 147 Undefeated yet subtly changing his tone, Mori Rintarō tried once more on 30 June 1888 to persuade his compatriots before he left for Japan. “Yamatokwai II,” in Mori Rintarō, Japan und Seine Gesundheitspflege, 23–6. Mori’s obsessive attention to defending the nationality of Japan should be understood in the context of the so-called Naumann controversy of 1866–7 when Mori Rintarō ferociously fought against the “prejudice” of

198  Notes to pages 82–90 Naumann against Japan. This controversy is dealt with in chapter 4 of this book. 148 For the history of the Seminar für Orientalische Sprachen, see Hannelore Bernhardt, Das “Seminar für Orientalische Sprachen,” in der Wissenschaftstradition der Sektion Asienwissenschaften der HumboldtUniversität zu Berlin (Berlin, 1990). 149 “Wa-Doku-Kai,” Ost-Asien. Monatsschrift für Handel, Industrie, Politik, Wissenschaft, Kunst, etc. 3, no. 1 (April 1900): 23. See also Günther Haasch, ed., Die Deutsch-Japanischen Gesellschaften von 1888 bis 1996 (Berlin: Edition Colloquium, 1996). 150 The 1888 statutes included eight specific points: (1) official meetings, twice a month; (2) festivities, society party, Christmas party, and party on national memorial days; (3) excursions for academic and social purposes; (4) trips to Japan; (5) friendly communications between members, practical support through advice and action; (6) study of foreign language and script; (7) cultivation of arts and sciences; and (8) the enlargement of the library. “Wa-Doku-Kai,” 24. 151 As the number of members grew, the meeting place changed several times. They used to meet at the Restaurant Schultheiss at the corner of Behrenand Friedrichstrasse, and also at Spaten, located at Friedrichstrasse 172. 152 Haasch, Die Deutsch-Japanischen Gesellschaften, 37–48. 153 Ost-Asien 1, no. 7 (October 1898): 317. 154 Ost-Asien 1, no. 8 (November 1898): 365. 155 Ost-Asien 1, no. 10 (January 1899): 449. 156 Ost-Asien 1, no. 3 (June 1898): 134. 157 Ost-Asien 4, no. 2 (May 1901): 55. 158 Iwaya, Briefe eines Japaners aus Deutschland, 52. Chapter Four: Bedazzled and Bewildered 1 Mori Ōgai, Dancing Girl (Maihime), [1890] trans. Richard Bowring, in J. Thomas Rimer, ed., Youth and Other Stories (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1994), 9–10. 2 Matsumura Jinzō’s letters to his parents and wife in Japan are full of descriptions of the tap water, the sewage system, canalization, and the education system in Würzburg. 3 “Japan in Berlin,” Die Gartenlaube (1872), 568. For the changing images of Japan depicted in Die Gartenlaube, see my earlier article “Imaginary Terrain of German Orientalism: The Image of Japan in Die Gartenlaube, 1854–1902,” in Lee M. Roberts, ed., Germany and the Imagined East (Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2005), 184–203.

Notes to pages 90–6 199 4 See Peter Fritzsche, Reading Berlin 1900 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996), 127–69. 5 David Elliott and Peter-Klaus Schuster, “Tokyo-Berlin/Berlin-Tokyo: A Continuing Dialog of Modern Cities,” in Catalog of Tokyo-Berlin/BerlinTokyo Exhibition (2006), 318–24 6 “The cities in Germany have large houses of even up to seven floors, usually not less than three, but normally five floors. The width of a house can be a whole block wide. There are no individual houses, as the roofs are connected to each other.” Kanao, Nagai Nagayoshi den, 95. 7 Matsumura, in Gimmler and Masuda, eds., 19 Würzburger Briefe des vereinsamten Studenten Jinzo Matsumura, 20; letter of 25 March 1886 to his wife Ryu. 8 Diary entry of 29 May 1888. Mori Ōgai, Deutschlandtagebuch 1884–1888, 193. 9 Mori Ōgai, Vita Sexualis, trans. Kazuji Ninomiya and Sanford Goldsten (Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle Co., 1972), 149. 10 Nagai Nagayoshi, letter from Berlin, 14 April 1871. Quoted in Kanao Seizō, Nagai Nagayoshi den, 80. 11 Matsumura, 19 Würzburger Briefe, 20; letter of 25 March 1886 to his wife, Ryu. 12 Matsumura, 19 Würzburger Briefe, 24; letter of 6 April 1886 to his father. 13 Matsumura, 19 Würzburger Briefe, 29; letter of 15 June 1886. 14 Matsumura, 19 Würzburger Briefe, 36; letter of September 29 1886 to his brother. 15 Mori Ōgai, Dancing Girl, 16. 16 Tsuboya, ed., Igaku hakushi Satō Susumu sensei jiden, 32. 17 Tsurumi Yūsuke, Seiden Gotō Shinpei: Isha jidai, zenshi 1893nen (Tokyo: Fujiwara Shoten, 2004), 623. 18 Matsumura, 19 Würzburger Briefe, 40; letter of 5 October 1886 to his father. 19 Ibid., 26; letter of 15 May 1886 to his father. 20 Mori Rintarō, diary entry of 13 October 1884. 21 See, for instance, Yoshiyuki Nakai “The Young Mori Ōgai: 1862–1892,” PhD diss. (Harvard University, 1974), 109–12 and 116–20; Helen Marlys Hopper, “The Conflict between Japanese Tradition and Western Learning in the Meiji Intellectual Mori Ōgai, 1862–1922,” PhD diss. (Washington University, St Louis, 1976), 37–52. 22 For Naumann, see Ueno Masuzō, Oyatoi gaikokujin: Shizen kagaku (Tokyo: Kajima Kenkyujō Shuppankai, 1968), 137–60. 23 Mori Rintarō, diary entry of 6 March 1886. Mori Ōgai, Deutschlandtagebuch, 114–15. 24 Nakai attributed the bitterness demonstrated by Naumann to the fact that he was fired by the Japanese government after ten years of service.

200  Notes to pages 96–101 “Naumann was one of the victims of the Japanese policy of replacing hired foreigners with Japanese retuned from studying abroad … He had seen himself as the transmitter of a superior culture to a backward nation. He felt that the Japanese had been rude and ungrateful in taking away his job, and he resented their tacit assertion that henceforth they would be able to make their own way through the modern world without the help of Westerners.” Nakai, “The Young Mori Ōgai,” 109–10. Sarah Cox Smith also noted that the employment of Harada Toyokichi (palaeontologist, 1860–94) and Wada Tsunashirō (mineralogist, 1856–1920), both returning from Germany, rather abruptly displaced Naumann in Japan. Given the situation, Smith claims that “it is little wonder … that Naumann could write of Japan in glowing terms while portraying the country as a land peopled by simple, backward folk.” J. Thomas Rimer, ed., Not a Song Like Any Other: An Anthology of Writings by Mori Ōgai (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004), 51. However, it seems that Naumann had bumpy relations with the Japanese government and his students even during the first half of his tenure in Tokyo. Ueno claims it was clear to his Japanese students that Naumann was in Japan to satisfy his own academic curiosities rather than to devote himself to the education of Japanese students; Oyatoi gaikokujin, 156–7. 25 Mori Ōgai, diary entry of 6 March 1886. 26 “Anthropologische Gesellschaft,” Allgemeine Zeitung, 30 June 1886. 27 Edmund Naumann, “Land und Volk der japanischen Inselkette,” Allgemeine Zeitung, 26 June 1886, 2561–3; 29 June 1886, 2603–4. 28 Ibid., 2603. 29 Ibid., 2561. 30 Ibid., 2604. 31 Diary entry of 17 December 1886. 32 Mori Rintarō, “Die Wahrheit über Nipon,” Allgemeine Zeitung, 29 Decem­ ber 1886, 5307–9. This article and the subsequent article responding to Naumann’s rebuttal – “Noch einmal die Wahrheit über Japan” – have been reprinted in Mori Rintarō, Japan und seine Gesundheitspflege (Tokyo: 1911), 7–19. Recently, Sarah Cox Smith translated these two articles of Mori Rintarō into English: Sarah Cox Smith, trans., “The Truth about Japan: Two Articles,” in J. Thomas Rimer, ed., Not a Song Like Any Other: An Anthology of Writings by Mori Ōgai (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004), 59–73. 33 Mori Rintarō, “Die Wahrheit über Nipon,” 5309. 34 In Sarah Cox Smith’s words, through the Naumann controversy, “Ōgai showed himself to be an advocate of modernization, but he was by no means an uncritical consumer of the West.” Smith, trans., “The Truth about Japan: Two Articles,” 58.

Notes to pages 101–3 201 35 Thomas LaMarre, “Science, History, and Culture in the Late Meiji Period: Mori Rintaro’s Experiments,” in Helen Hardacre and Adam L. Kern, eds., New Directions in the Study of Meiji Japan (New York, 1997), 81. 36 Mori Ōgai, Daydreams [Mōsō, 1911], trans. Richard Bowring, in Mori Ōgai: Youth and Other Stories, 169. Chapter Five: Japan through the Stethoscope 1 Emma Schultze, Letters from Meiji Japan: Correspondence of a German surgeon’s wife, 1878–1881, trans. Charlotte T. Marshall in collaboration with John Z. Bowers (New York: Josiah Macy Jr. Foundation, 1980), 11–12. In German original: Wilhelm Schultze, Ein Deutscher Chirurg und Seine Frau in Japan vor 100 Jahren: Briefe von Dr. Wilhelm Schultze und Seiner Frau Emma Geb. Wegscheider an D. Eltern Dr. Wegscheidern in Berlin aus Japan 1878–1881 (Lübeck: T. Hesekiel, 1980), 40. Japanese translation also available: Meiji shoki oyatoi ishi fusai no seikatsu: Shurutse fujin no tegami kara, trans. Kitamura Tomoaki and Koseki Tsuneo (Tokyo: Gendōsha, 1987). It is unfortunate that the original editor of the letters, Toska Hesekiel, a grand-daughter of Wilhelm and Emma Schultze, had to publish these letters on her own after being turned down by various German publishers. Since the English translation is abridged, this book mainly used the German original texts; however, when the English translations were available, the rather impeccable translations by Marshall were quoted. 2 Wilhelm Schultze himself travelled through the Suez Canal when he first accepted an invitation from the Japanese Ministry of Education to be a professor at Tokyo Medical School in 1874, thus crossing two oceans (in this case, the Mediterranean Sea and the Indian Ocean). Leopold Müller also sailed for Japan, by way of Belgium, England, and New York in July 1871. Japanese students took this route as well when they travelled to Germany, although with the construction of the Siberian Railway, some of them apparently took the long way through Siberia. 3 Josef Borocz, “Travel-Capitalism: The Structure of Europe and the Advent of the Tourist,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 34, no. 4 (1992): 708–41. 4 At the International Exhibition of 1862, the British public had a chance to fully enjoy the first organized display of Japanese art. In Paris, the Expositions Universelles of 1867, 1878, and 1889 featured more extensive Japanese displays, and at the Vienna International Exhibition of 1873, enthusiasm for the arts and crafts of Japan was further fuelled. Especially in France, this fascination for Japanese arts and crafts, termed Japonisme, quickly became the main component of Japan’s image in Europe.

202  Notes to pages 103–4 5 For general literature on European and American perceptions of Japan, see John Ashmead, Jr, “The Idea of Japan, 1853–1895: Japan as Described by Americans and Other Travellers from the West,” PhD diss. (Harvard University, 1951); Jean-Pierre Lehmann, The Image of Japan: From Feudal Isolation to World Power, 1850–1905 (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1979); Toshio Yokoyama, Japan in the Victorian Mind: A Study of Stereotyped Images of a Nation, 1850–80 (London: Macmillan, 1987); Gérard Siary, “The Image of Japan in European Travelogues from 1853 to 1905,” Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan, 4th ser., vol. 2 (1987): 155–70; Siary, “De l’utopie à l’aporie: La représentation du Japon chez les voyageurs anglais et français de 1853 à 1912,” Corps écrit (Représentations du Japon) 17 (1986): 41–8. See also Akira Iriye, Mutual Images: Essays in American-Japanese Relations (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975.) An article by Lorraine Sterry is also interesting: “Constructs of Meiji Japan: The Role of Writing by Victorian Women Travellers,” Japanese Studies 23, no. 2 (2003): 167–83. 6 Siary, “The Image of Japan in European Travelogues,” 157–8. 7 Bhaskar Mukhopadhyay, “Writing Home, Writing Travel: The Poetics and Politics of Dwelling in Bengali Modernity,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 44 (2002): 293. 8 The term “colonial fantasies” is borrowed from Susan Zantop, Colonial Fantasies: Conquest, Family, and Nation in Precolonial Germany, 1770–1870 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997). 9 The official English translation of the name of the society is “German East Asiatic Society,” but it is not descriptive enough to reveal the historicity and characteristics of the society, which was clearly marked by contem­ porary discourse on ethnology and anthropology. As such, I maintain that a more appropriate translation therefore should be “German Society for the Natural History and Ethnology of East Asia.” 10 See Andrew Zimmerman, Anthropology and Antihumanism in Imperial Germany (Chicago, London: University of Chicago Press, 2001). For the abbreviated German edition, see Andrew Zimmerman, “Ethnologie im Kaiserreich: Natur, Kultur und ‘Rasse’ in Deutschland und Seinen Kolonien,” in Sebastian Conrad and Jürgen Osterhammel, eds., Das Kaiserreich Transnational: Deutschland in Der Welt 1871–1914 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004). 11 Baelz, Awakening Japan, 4; diary of 1 January 1876. 12 It should be noted that there is an ongoing controversy over the nature of German anthropology. Such revisionist accounts as H. Glenn Penny’s espouse a relatively favourable view of German anthropology and temporally locate the shift from liberalism to ethnocentric imperialism around

Notes to pages 104–7 203

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14

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18 19 20

21 22

23 24

the turn of the century. See H. Glenn Penny and M. Bunzl, eds., Worldly Provincialism: German Anthropology in the Age of Empire (Ann Arbor: Michigan University Press, 2003). In the past quarter-century, extensive historical research has been done regarding the cultural and social importance of German voluntary associations. It would be impossible to list all important monographs and articles here. For a short introductory review, see Oded Heilbronner, “The German Bourgeois Club as a Political and Social Structure in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries,” Continuity and Change 13, no. 3 (1998): 443–73. Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde, R 901-37591, Nr. 435. Die deutsche Gesellschaft fuer Natur- und Voelkerkunde Ost-Asiens, desgl. die Herstellung eines japanischen Museums. Ibid. The society had in June 1883 only 78 members, but by 1888, that number nearly doubled to 145. In 1893 it increased to 189 and on 29 October 1898, the twenty-fifth-anniversary meeting of the society, it reached 265. “Die Geschichte der Gesellschaft,” Mitteilungen der Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens, March 1923: 5. By contrast, historian Rolf-Harald Wippich gives more credit to Brandt. Rolf-Harald Wippich, “Max von Brandt und die Gründung der OAG (Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens): Die erste deutsche wissenschaftliche Vereinigung in Ostasien,” Doitsu go ken kenkyū 11 (1994): 64–77. Ronald Suleski, “Japanese Studies in Asia: The Asiatic Society of Japan,” Tsūshin 4, no. 1 (1998). Andrew Zimmerman, “Anthropology and the Place of Knowledge in Imperial Germany,” PhD diss. (UC San Diego, 1998), 24. George Macklin Wilson, “Introduction,” in Erwin Baelz, Awakening Japan: The Diary of a German Doctor. Erwin Baelz (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1974 [1932]), xxi. “Die Geschichte der Gesellschaft,” 1. For a concise overview of the German expatriates in Japan, see Irene Hardach-Pinke, “Die Meiji-Deutschen: Historische und soziale Bedingungen der Anfänge deutsch-japanischer Kulturkontakte in Japan,” Saeculum 38 (1987): 76–98, esp. 77–87: “Wer waren die Meiji-Deutschen?” Carl von Weegmann, “85 Jahre O.A.G.,” Mitteilungen der Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens 34, part F (1961): 9. Georg Michaelis, Georg Michaelis: Ein Preussischer Jurist im Japan Der MeijiZeit; Briefe, Tagebuchnotizen, Dokumente 1885–1889 (Munich: Iudicium, 2001), 127.

204  Notes to pages 107–11 25 26 27 28 29

Von Weegmann, “85 Jahre O.A.G.,” 13–14. “Die Geschichte der Gesellschaft,” 8. Von Weegmann, “85 Jahre O.A.G.,” 9. “Die Geschichte der Gesellschaft,” 11. “Sachregister zu den Mitteilungen und Supplementbänden,” Mitteilungen der Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens, Supplementband 24, 1968. 30 Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 457. 31 “Über die japanische Geburtshilfe,” Mitteilungen der Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens 1 (1873–6), nos. 5, 8, and 10; “Die Tränenkanal der Japaner,” Mitteilungen der Deutsche Gesellschaft für Naturund Völkerkunde Ostasiens 1 (1873–6), no. 5; “Einige Notizen über die japanische Musik,” Mitteilungen der Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens 1 (1873–6), nos. 6, 8, and 9; “Einige Notizen über japanischen Gartenkunst,” Der deutsche Garten, no. 17 (1878). 32 “Katalog der im langen Saal der Kunst-Akademie zum Besten des unter dem Protectorate Ihrer K.K. Hoheit der Frau Kronprinzessin stehenden Friedrichsstifts vom 16. Januar bis 11. Februar 1877 stattfindenden Ausstel­ lung japanischer Gegenstände” (Berlin, 1877) Gedruckt in der Koeniglichen Geheimen Ober-Hofbuchdruckerei (R.v. Decker). Landesarchiv Berlin, E Rep. 200-35, Nr. 51, Japanische Schriften und Druckes. 33 “Sitzungsbericht,” Mitteilungen der Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens 1, no. 2 (1873): 2. 34 Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 317. 35 Landesarchiv Berlin, E Rep. 200-35, Nr. 46, Berufung Leopold Müller nach Japan und seine Tätigkeit in Japan, 19–45. 36 Müller, “Tokyo-Igaku,” 444. 37 John Z. Bowers gives a different interpretation. According to Bowers, Müller “acquired through his daily intercourse with the Japanese sufficient fluency in the language and the colloquial manner of expression for him to converse with patients and travel throughout the country with ease.” But unfortunately, he does not provide any reference for his claim. Bowers, “The Adoption of German Medicine in Japan: The Decision and the Beginning,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 53, no. 1 (1979): 74. 38 Schultze, Ein Deutscher Chirurg und Seine Frau in Japan vor 100 Jahren, 43; letter from 2 July 1878. 39 Ibid., 47; letter from 4 July 1878. 40 Müller, “Einige Notizen über die japanische Musik,” 13. 41 Letter dated 17 December 1871 from Müller to his mother in Berlin. Landesarchiv Berlin, E Rep. 200–35, Nr. 49, Bl. 11–15. This same incident

Notes to pages 111–14 205 is also reported in Beilage des Berliner Börsen-Kurier Nr. 435, Sonnabend, 16 September 1893, which published Müller’s obituary. Finally, on 2 February 1895, the Deutsch-Australische Post, a German newspaper published in Sydney, Australia, reported the incident of Müller in the article “Crown and Doctorate” (Krone und Doktorhut). The article begins: “Not for filthy lucre, but for the sake of professional honour, a physician recently had a serious argument at the court of an exotic ruler.” 2 February 1895, Deutsch-Australische Post, 2 in Landesarchiv Berlin, E Rep. 200-35, Nr. 55. Zeitungsartikel über Leopold Müllers Aufenthalt in Japan. 42 Jürgen Osterhammel, Geschichtswissenschaft jenseits des Nationalstaats: Studien zu Beziehungsgeschichte und Zivilisationsvergleich (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2001), 80. 43 Erwin Baelz is a rather obscure figure in German history, yet he has been quite well known to scholars of Japanese studies, and the amount of research devoted to him in the Japanese language is quite impressive. The approach taken by Japanese scholars to Baelz, however, has been mainly a search for an “objective” description or testimony of Meiji Japan. See Nakamura Naomi, “Berutsu no mita Meiji Nihon,” Shakai kagaku tōkyū 43, no. 2 (December 1997): 339–71; Sōma Hisayasu, “Berutsu no nikki- f­ udatsu no hōyaku ni yosete” Kokubungaku kaishaku to kanshō 60, no. 3 (1995): 145–53. 44 Baelz, Awakening Japan, 398. 45 Ibid., 182. The quote is from his diary entry of 18 December 1902, composed in Hanoi. 46 Diary of 26 March 1905. Ibid., 361. 47 Diary of 9 February 1905. Ibid., 345. 48 Diary of 6 June 1879. Ibid., 42. 49 “The Preface to Kano’s Jiujitsu,” ibid., 72. 50 “Ansprache. Gehalten bei seinem 25 jährigen Universitäts-Jubiläum am 22. November 1901,” reprinted in Felix Schottlaender, Erwin Von Baelz, 1849–1913; Leben und Wirken Eines Deutschen Arztes in Japan (Stuttgart: Ausland und Heimat Verlags-aktiengesellschaft, 1928), 128. 51 Baelz, “Die Menschen-Rassen Ost-Asiens mit specieller Rücksicht auf Japan,” Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 33, no. 3 (1901),168. The Japanese translation of this article is included in the translated collection of Baelz’s articles. “Higashi Ajia no jinshu, tokuni Nihon o chūshin ni,” in Wakabayashi Misako and Yamaguchi Seiichi, eds., Berutsu Nihon bunka ronshū (Tokyo: Tōkai Daigaku Shuppankai, 2001), 35–76. 52 See, for instance, Andrew Zimmerman, Anthropology and Antihumanism in Imperial Germany (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), esp. chap. 4, “Measuring Skulls: The Social Role of the Antihumanist.”

206  Notes to pages 114–20 53 Baelz, “Die Menschen-Rassen Ostasiens,” 168–70. 54 Ibid., 183. N. McLeod, a Scottish missionary and businessman, argued that the Korean people were one of the descendants of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel: Korea and the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel with Korean, Japanese and Israelitish Illustrations Dedicated to Great Britain, America, Germany, France and the other Teutonic Nations of Europe, the Supposed Representations of the Royal House of Judah, and the Seed Only of the Royal House of Ephraim, and the Children of Israel, Their Companions, and to the Jews or Judah, who are with them, also to China, Japan and Korea (Yokohama, Japan: C. Levy and the Sei Shi Bunsha Co.,1879). 55 Baelz, “Die Menschen-Rassen Ostasiens,” 186. 56 Ibid., 186. 57 Ibid., 175. 58 Baelz, “Über die Rassenelemente in Ostasien, speciell in Japan.” Mitteilungen der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens 8, part 2: 230. 59 Baelz, Awakening Japan, 212; entry for 3 July 1903. 60 Suzanne L. Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire: Religion, Race, and Scholarship (Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 385. 61 Baelz, Awakening Japan, 216. 62 Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 383–6. 63 Rotem Kowner, “‘Lighter than yellow, but not enough’: Western Discourse on the Japanese ‘Race,’ 1854–1904,” Historical Journal 43, no. 1 (2000): 124. 64 Andre Schmid, Korea between Empires, 1895–1919 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 12. 65 Kowner, “Western Discourse on the Japanese ‘Race,’” 124. 66 On Tsuboi Shōgorō, see, for instance, Sakano Tōru, “Kōzuka no seijigaku – Tsuboi Shōgorō to Meijijki jinruigaku no kiseki,” Shisō 907 (2000): 162–85. 67 Suzuki Hisashi, “Koganei Yoshikiyo sensei (1858–1944) to Erwin von Baelz hakushi (1858–1913),” Jinruigaku zasshi 82, no. 1 (1974): 1–9. 68 Ibid., 7. 69 Fritz Munk, Das medizinische Berlin, 99–100. 70 Takahashi Kiyoshi, “1888 nen no hokkaidō chōsa ryokō: Tsuboi ShōgorōKoganei Yoshikiyo no jinruigaku teki chōsa,” Kōkogaku shi kenkyū 7 (1997): 65–80. 71 Takeshi Kubo, “Beiträge zur physischen Anthropologie der Koreaner. I. Metrischer Teil,” Mitteilungen der medicinischen Facultät der KaiserkichJapanischen Universitäta zu Tokyo 12 (1913): 1. 72 Ibid., 16. 73 Ibid., 39.

Notes to pages 120–4 207 74 75 76 77

Ibid., 40. Ibid., 37. Ibid., 6. Kubo’s racial invective ultimately caused a month-long student strike at Keijō Medical College in June 1921. For the Kubo Incident, see my earlier article “Anatomically Speaking: The Kubo Incident and the Paradox of Race in Colonial Korea,” in Rotem Kowner and Walter Demel, eds., Race and Racism in Modern East Asia: Western and Eastern Constructions (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 411–30. 78 Arnaud Nanta, “Physical Anthropology and the Reconstruction of Japanese Identity in Postcolonial Japan,” Social Science Japan Journal 11, no. 1 (2008): 44. 79 George Steinmetz, The Devil’s Handwriting: Precoloniality and the German Colonial State in Qingdao, Samoa, and Southwest Africa (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007). Chapter Six: Promises and Perils of Encounters 1 Thomas D. Brock, Robert Koch: A Life in Medicine and Bacteriology (Washington, DC: ASM Press, 1999), 275. 2 “Where Is Dr. Robert Koch?: Scientist Said He Was Going to Milwaukee, but Hasn’t Been,” New York Times, 17 April 1908. 3 Quoted in Mariko Ogawa, Robert Koch’s 74 Days in Japan (Berlin: Mori Ōgai Gedenkstätte, 2003), 4–5. 4 “Kohho hakase rainichi kettei,’ Yomiuri shinbun, 12 April 1908, 2. 5 Ogawa, Robert Koch’s 74 Days in Japan, 10. 6 William Johnston, Modern Epidemic: A History of Tuberculosis in Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 63. “In the seven years from 1886 to 1892, the total number of deaths in Japan reached 5,817,458. The number of persons who died from consumption was 312,457, or 5.37 percent of the total, almost as many as the 335,261, or 5.76 percent of the total, who died of the six legally designated acute infectious diseases.” 7 Johnston notes that the Japanese medical press failed to recognize the significance of the discovery of the tubercle bacillus in 1882 and therefore did not report it at all. On the Japanese reception of Koch’s theory, see chapter 7 of his book, “The Promise of Medical Science”; The Modern Epidemic, 185–213. 8 Ogawa, Robert Koch’s 74 Days in Japan, 17. Citing from Osaka Asahi shinbun, 6 August 1908. 9 Mikinosuke Miyajima, Robert Koch and Shibasaburo Kitasato (Geneva: Sonor, 1931), 8.

208  Notes to pages 125–32 10 Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan, 80–2. 11 Ogawa, Robert Koch’s 74 Days in Japan, 13. 12 Alexander R. Bay, “Beriberi, Military Medicine, and Medical Authority in Prewar Japan,” Japan Review 20 (2008): 111–56. To avoid confusion, I consistently use Tokyo Imperial University in this chapter, although this name was officially adopted in 1897. 13 See William E. Steslicke, “The Political Life of the Japan Medical Association,” Journal of Asian Studies 31, no. 4 (August 1972): 841–62. 14 Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan. 15 Johnston, Modern Epidemic, 169–70. 16 Christian Oberländer notes that Baelz began to apply bacteriological methods to his research on beriberi as early as 1882: “The Rise of Western ‘Scientific Medicine’ in Japan: Bacteriology and Beriberi,” in Morris Low, ed., Building a Modern Japan: Science, Technology, and Medicine in the Meiji Era and Beyond (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 23–4. 17 Johnston, Modern Epidemic, 169–70. 18 Oberländer, “The Rise of Western ‘Scientific Medicine’ in Japan,” 24–5. 19 Alfred S. Evans, “Pettenkofer Revisited: The Life and Contributions of Max von Pettenkofer (1818–1901),” Yale Journal of Biology and Medicine 46 (1973): 170. 20 Ibid., 170. 21 Alfred Morabia, “Epidemiologic Interactions, Complexity, and the Lonesome Death of Max von Pettenkofer,” American Journal of Epidemiology 166, no. 11 (2007): 1234. 22 Ibid., 1235. 23 Richard J. Evans, Death in Hamburg: Society and Politics in the Cholera Years 1830–1910 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 496. 24 Yamada Kōrin, Gun’i Mori Ōgai (Tokyo: Bunmatsudō, 1943), 151. 25 Letter of 20 May 1885 from Ogata to Pettenkofer; original stored in manuscript section of Bayerischen Staatsbibliothek; reproduced in Kamimura Naoki, “Ogata Masanori no doitsu ryūgaku to Pettenkōfā ate shokan,” Bungakubu ronsō 85 (March 2005): 100–1. 26 Ogata Masanori, “Kakke byōdoku hakken,” Kanpō, 7 April 1885: 7–9; 8 April 1885: 6–8. 27 Eisei tsūho 16 (1885–6): 17–27; 17 (1885–6): 10–20. 28 Nomura Shigeru, Kitasato Shibasaburō to Ogata Masanori: Nihon kindai igaku no reimeiki (Kumamoto: Kumamoto Nichinichi Shinbunsha, 2003), 57. 29 Ibid., 62. 30 Kitasato Shibasaburō, “Ogata shi no kakke bachiruren setsu o yomu,” Chūgai iji shinpō 212 (25 January 1889): 1–2.

Notes to pages 132–7 209 31 Quoted in Matsuda Makoto, “Takaki Kanehiro to sono hihansha tachi: Kakke no gen’in ni tsuite tenkai sareta wagakuni saisho no igaku ronsō,” Takaki Kanehiro no igaku (Tokyo: Tokyo Jikeikai Ika Daigaku, 2007), 174–5. http://ir.jikei.ac.jp/handle/10328/3445. 32 Kitasato Shibasaburō, “Zai doitsu-koku igakushi Kitasato Shibasaburō shi shokan,” Chūgai iji shinpō 212 (25 January1889), 49. Quoted in Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan, 163. 33 Inuzuka Takaaki, Shin Satsumagaku: Satsuma to ryūgakusei (Kagoshima: Nanpō Shinsha, 2006), 132. 34 Nomura, Kitasato Shibasaburō to Ogata Masanori, 62. 35 Shinoda Tatsuaki, “Tatakau ikon: Kitasato Shibasaburō,” Nihon naika gakkai zasshi 92, no. 9 (2003): 145. 36 Oberländer, “The Rise of Western ‘Scientific Medicine’ in Japan,” 29. 37 Nomura, Kitasato Shibasaburō to Ogata Masanori, 66. 38 Letter of 16 November 1885; reproduced in Kamimura, “Ogata Masanori no doitsu ryūgaku to Pettenkōfā ate shokan,” 107. 39 Evans, Death in Hamburg, 503. 40 Ibid., 498. 41 Bartholomew discusses the foundation of the institute in detail in his book: The Formation of Science in Japan, 100–2. 42 Nomura, Kitasato Shibasaburō to Ogata Masanori, 163–4. 43 Shiyung Liu, “Ripples of Rivalry,” East Asian Science, Technology and Society: An International Journal 2 (2008): 47–71. 44 For a general discussion of the outbreak of bubonic plague in Hong Kong in 1894, see Myron Echenberg, Plague Ports: The Global Urban Impact of Bubonic Plague, 1894–1901 (New York: New York University Press, 2007), 16–46. 45 Ibid., 33. 46 Aoyama Tanemichi and Miyamoto Hajime, “1894nen Honkon ni ryūkō seru pesuto byō ni tsuite,” Chūgai iji shinpō 375 (1895): 1281–8; 377 (1895): 1428–33. 47 Tanemichi Aoyama, “Ueber die Pestepidemie in Hong-Kong im Jahre 1894,” Mittheilungen aus der Medicininschen Facultät der KaiserlichJapanischen Universität zu Tokio 3 (1897): 115–238. 48 Echenberg, Plague Ports, 34. 49 Aoyama, “Ueber die Pestepidemie in Hong-Kong im Jahre 1894,” 131. 50 Ibid., 133. 51 Masanori Ogata, “Ueber die Pestepidemie in Formosa,” Centralblatt für Bakteriologie, Parasitenkund u. Infektionskrankheiten. Erste Abteilung: Medizinisch-hygienische Bakteriologie und tierische Parasitenkunde 20/21 (June 1897): 775.

210  Notes to pages 137–45 52 53 54 55 56 57

58 59 60 61 62

63 64 65

66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79

Ibid., 770. Oberländer, “The Rise of Western ‘Scientific Medicine’ in Japan,” 29. Brock, Robert Koch, 276. Shinoda Tatsuaki, “Tatakau ikon: Kitasato Shibasaburō,” 146. Kenneth J. Carpenter, Beriberi, White Rice, and Vitamin B: A Disease, a Cause, and a Cure (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 2. Judith A. Bennett, “Germs or Rations? Beriberi and the Japanese Labor Experiment in Colonial Fiji and Queensland,” Pacific Studies 24, nos. 3/4 (2001): 4. Bay, “Beriberi, Military Medicine, and Medical Authority in Prewar Japan,” 121–2. Alexander R. Bay, Beriberi in Modern Japan: The Making of a National Disease (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2012), 89. Ogawa, Robert Koch, 9–10. Bay, Beriberi in Modern Japan, 100. “Batavia fukin beriberi byō chōsa fukinmeisho.” Quoted in Yamashita Seizō, Ōgai Mori Rintarō to kakke funsō (Tokyo: Nihon Hyōronsha, 2008), 368. Ibid., 48–9. Bay, Beriberi in Modern Japan, 23. Erwin Baelz and Kinnosuke Miura, Beriberi oder Kakke (Polyneuritis endemica). Sonder-Abdruck aus dem Handbuch der Topenkrankheiten Band II (Leipzing: Verlag von Johann Ambrosius Barth, 1905), 140–74. Ibid., 149. Bay, Beriberi in Modern Japan, 23. Yamashita, Ōgai Mori Rintarō to kakke funsō, 49. Carpenter, Beriberi, White Rice, and Vitamin B, 10. Yamashita, Ōgai Mori Rintarō to kakke funsō, 27. Ibid., 26. Yoshinori Itokawa, “Kanehiro Takaki (1849–1920): A Biographical Sketch,” Journal of Nutrition 106, no. 5 (1976): 583. Ibid., 584. Ibid. Yamashita, Ōgai Mori Rintarō to kakke funsō, 62. Bay, Beriberi oder Kakke, 49. Itokawa, “Kanehiro Takaki,” 584. Letter of Ogata to Pettenkofer, 20 May 1885; reproduced in Kamimura, “Ogata Masanori no doitsu ryūgaku to Pettenkōfā ate shokan,” 101–2. Matsuda Makoto, Takaki Kanehiro no igaku (Tokyo: Sasaki Shuppan, 1986), 222–3.

Notes to pages 146–52 211 80 Matsuda Makoto, “Mori Ōgai kara mita Takaki Kanehiro,” Tōkyō Jikeikai Ika Daigaku zasshi 117 (2002): 203. 81 Quoted in Bay, “Beriberi, Military Medicine, and Medical Authority in Prewar Japan,” 118. 82 Matsuda, Takaki Kanehiro no igaku, 218. 83 Ibid., 220. 84 Bay, “Beriberi, Military Medicine, and Medical Authority in Prewar Japan,” 113. 85 Ogawa, Robert Koch’s 74 Days in Japan, 23. 86 Letter of Koch to his daughter; quoted in Brock, Robert Koch, 278. The original letter in German with dates is included in Bernhard Möllers, Robert Koch: Persönlichkeit und Lebenswerk, 1843-1910 (Hannover: Schmorl & Von Seefeld, 1950), 349–50. 87 Johnston, Modern Epidemic, 63. 88 Rogaski, Hygienic Modernity, 265–9. Epilogue: Fatal Affinities? 1 For instance, Nohara Kumakichi, a dye expert working as an agent for Chemikalienwerke Griesheim and living in Detmold, Lippe, was forced into internment with his German wife from 22 August to 11 October 1914. Michael Rauck, Japanese in the German Language and Cultural Area, 1865– 1914: A General Survey, 22–3. 2 Nichidoku Igaku Kyōkai, Ko Hisada fukukaichō tsuitōshi (Tokyo, 1942). See also Wolfgang Uwe Eckart, “Die Medizin als Instrument deutscher Kulturbeeinflussung in Ostasien: Deutsche Ärzte in Japan und China, 1871–1914,” Habilitationsschrift (University of Münster, 1985). 3 Ilza Veith, “On the Mutual Indebtedness of Japanese and Western Medicine,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 52 (1978): 383–409. 4 Michael Shiyung Liu, Prescribing Colonization: The Role of Medical Practices and Policies in Japan-Ruled Taiwan, 1895–1945 (Ann Arbor: Association for Asian Studies, 2009). 5 On Taehan Hospital and its activities, see Sin Tong-wŏn, Han’guk kŭndae pogŏn ŭiryosa (Seoul: Hanul, 1997), 338–63. 6 Hwang Sang-ik, Kŭndae ŭiryo ŭi p’unggyŏng (Seoul: P’urŭn Yŏksa, 2013), 721. 7 Satō Susumu, “Daikan i’in,” Dōjin 5 (1906), 3. Quoted in Park Yunjae, Han’guk kŭndae ŭihak ŭi kiwŏn (Seoul: Heyan, 2005), 184-5. 8 Andrew F. Trofal, Hannah Ueno-Olsen, Ruiko Oiwa, and Masanosuke Yoshikawa, “Dr. Kiyoshi Shiga: Discoverer of the Dysentery Bacillus,” Clinical Infectious Diseases 29, no. 5 (1999): 1305.

212  Notes to pages 152–7 9 Ishida Sumio, “Shiga Kiyoshi to Keijō Teikoku Daigaku,” Nippon iji shinpō 4385 (2008): 86. 10 Bowers, When the Twain Meet, 158. 11 Akira Iikura, “The ‘Yellow Peril’ and Its Influence on Japanese–German Relations,” in Christian W. Spang and Rolf-Harald Wippich, eds., Japanese–German Relations, 1895–1945: War, Diplomacy, and Public Opinion (London, New York: Routledge, 2006), 80–97. 12 The propagation of eugenic ideas in Japan also corresponded with the growing conviction and confidence among the Japanese that they could use eugenics for the improvement of the mental capacities of the Japanese people. Sumiko Otsubo and James R. Bartholomew, “Eugenics in Japan: Some Ironies of Modernity, 1883–1945,” Science in Context 11, nos. 3–4 (1998): 545–65. 13 Mori Ōgai, Daydreams, 176. 14 Bowers, When the Twain Meet, 158. 15 Wataru Iijima, “The Establishment of Japanese Colonial Medicine: Infectious and Parasitic Disease Studies in Taiwan, Manchuria, and Korea under the Japanese Rule before WWII,” Aoyama shigaku 28 (2010), 77–8. 16 K. Shiga, “Die Ärzte in Japan,” Die Zeitschrift für Missionskunde und Religionswissenschaft 21 (1906): 184–6. 17 For a brief introduction of Dōjinkai in English, see Chieko Nakajima, “Medicine, Philanthropy, and Imperialism: The Dōjinkai in China, 1902–1945,” Sino-Japanese Studies 17 (2010), 47–84. For its activities in colonial Taiwan, see Ming-Cheng M. Lo, Doctors within Borders: Profession, Ethnicity, and Modernity in Colonial Taiwan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), esp. chapter 6, “Borders of Medicine: The Dōjinkai Projects in China.” For Korea, see Park Yunjae, “T’onggambu ŭi ŭihak chibae chŏngch’aek kwa Tonginhoe,” Tongbanghakchi 119 (2002): 95–138; Yi Ch’ung-ho, “Tonginhoe ŭi ŭisa kyoyuk hwaltong,” Ŭisahak 4 (1995): 21–30. 18 Iijima, “The Establishment of Japanese Colonial Medicine,” 88. 19 Nakajima, “Medicine, Philanthropy, and Imperialism,” 50. 20 Lo, Doctors within Borders, 165. 21 Bernd Martin, “Japanese-German Collaboration in the Development of Bacteriological and Chemical Weapons and the War in China,” Japanese– German Relations, 1895–1945: War, Diplomacy, and Public Opinion, 200–14. The quote is from 210. 22 Ost-Asien. Monatsschrift für Handel, Industrie, Politik, Wissenschaft, Kunst, etc. 4 (July 1898), 150. 23 Ost-Asien 3 (June 1898), 134. 24 Ibid.

Notes to pages 158–60 213 25 Other leading members included (using the spellings originally included in the article): Vice Minister of War (Y. Nakamura), Vice Minister of the Imperial Household (T. Kawaguchi), a member of the House of Peers (S. Kikkawa), Resident Minister to Germany (T. Hayakawa), President of the Board of Audit (N. Watanabe), and Viscount Y. Matsudaira. In addition, there were two court physicians to the Meiji Emperor (S. Sakata and G. Oka), two staff physicians (K. Taniguchi and K. Kako), police chief physician (S. Yamane), seven medical faculty members of Tokyo University (W. Taguchi, K. Katayama, S. Shiba, S. Sato, M. Mitsukuri, K. Fujisawa, and J. Aoyama), and eight practicing physicians (T. Kikuchi, S. Kitazato, R. Uno, M. Sasaki, Y. Kanasugi, H. Onishi, T. Kato, and T. Sato). 26 Christian W. Spang and Rolf-Harald Wippich, “Introduction – from ‘German Measles’ to ‘Honorary Aryans’: An Overview of Japanese– German Relations until 1945,” in Japanese–German Relations, 1895–1945, 2. 27 Baelz, Awakening Japan, 228–9. 28 Erik Grimmer-Solem, “Die preußische Hochschulpolitik im Spannungsfeld des internationalen Kulturwettbewerbs: der Fall Japan (1869–1914),” in Wolfgang Neugebauer and Bärbel Holtz, eds., Kulturstaat und Bürgergesellschaft: Preußen, Deutschland und Europa im 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhundert (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2010), 216.

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Selected Bibliography

Archives Germany Bundesarchiv-Lichterfelde Geheime Staatsarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz Landesarchiv-Berlin Universitätsarchiv der Humboldt-Universität Japan Diplomatic Record Office of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs Historiographical Institute of the University of Tokyo National Archives of Japan National Diet Library University of Tokyo Faculty of Medicine Periodicals Allgemeine Zeitung Die Gartenlaube Japan und China Japan Gazette Kokumin no tomo Ost-Asien, Monatsschrift für Handel, Industrie, Politik, Wissenschaft, Kunst, etc. Mitteilungen der Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens Nihon iji shinpō Tōkyō Daigaku Igakubu ichiran Tōkyō Daigaku Igakubu nenpō

216  Selected Bibliography Tsingtauer Neueste Nachrichten Yomiuri shinbun Works Cited Araki, Yasuhiko. Kindai Nichi-doku kōshōshi kenkyū josetsu: Saisho no doitsu daigaku nihonjin gakusei Mashima Seiji to Kāru Rēman. Tokyo: Yūshōdō Shuppan, 2003. Ashmead, John, Jr. “The Idea of Japan, 1853–1895: Japan as Described by American and Other Travellers from the West.” PhD dissertation, Harvard University, 1951. Baedekers Reisehandbücher. Nordamerika. Die Vereinigten Staaten nebst einem Ausflug nach Mexiko. Handbuch für Reisende. Leipzig, 1904. Baelz, Erwin. Awakening Japan: The Diary of a German Doctor. Erwin Baelz. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1974 [1932]. Baelz, Erwin. Berutsu Nihon bunka ronshū. Ed. and trans. Wakabayashi Misako and Yamaguchi Seiichi. Tokyo: Tōkai Daigaku Shuppankai, 2001. Barenblatt, Daniel. A Plague upon Humanity: The Secret Genocide of Axis Japan’s Germ Warfare Operation. New York: HarperCollins, 2004. Bärnighausen, Till. Medizinische Humanexperimente der japanischen Truppen für biologische Kriegsführung in China 1932–1945. Frankfurt am Main, New York: Peter Lang, 2002. Bartholomew, James R. “The Acculturation of Science in Japan: Kitasato Shibasaburō and the Japanese Bacteriological Community, 1885–1920.” PhD dissertation, Stanford University, 1971. Bartholomew, James R. The Formation of Science in Japan: Building a Research Tradition. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989. Bay, Alexander R. “Beriberi, Military Medicine, and Medical Authority in Prewar Japan.” Japan Review 20 (2008). Bay, Alexander R. Beriberi in Modern Japan: The Making of a National Disease. Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2012. Beard, Charles. An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution of the United States. New York: Macmillan, 1913. Bennett, John William. In Search of Identity. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1958. Bennett, Judith A. “Germs or Rations? Beriberi and the Japanese Labor Experi­ ment in Colonial Fiji and Queensland.” Pacific Studies 24, nos. 3–4 (2001). Bernhardt, Hannelore. Das “Seminar für Orientalische Sprache” in der Wissenschaftstradition der Sektion Asienwissenschaften der Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin. Berlin, 1990.

Selected Bibliography  217 Bigelow, Horatio R. “Berlin as a Medical Center – A Guide for American Practitioners and Students.” New England Medical Monthly: A Monthly Journal Devoted to Medicine and Surgery 4 (October 1884–October 1885). Blackbourn, David. The Long Nineteenth Century: A History of Germany, 1780– 1918. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. Blackbourn, David, and Geoff Eley. The Peculiarities of German History: Bourgeois Society and Politics in Nineteenth-Century Germany. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984. Bleker, Johanna. “Medical Students –To the Bed-side or to the Laboratory? Emergence of Laboratory-Training in German Medical Education, 1870– 1900.” Clio Medica 21 (1987–8). Bonner, Thomas Neville. American Doctors and German Universities: A Chapter in International Intellectual Relations, 1870–1914. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1963. Borocz, Josef. “Travel-Capitalism: The Structure of Europe and the Advent of the Tourist.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 34, no. 4 (1992). Bowers, John Z. “The Adoption of German Medicine in Japan: The Decision and the Beginning.” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 53, no. 1 (1979). Bowers, John Z. Western Medical Pioneers in Feudal Japan. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1970. Bowers, John Z. When the Twain Meet: The Rise of Western Medicine in Japan. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980. Brazell, Karen. “Mori Ōgai in Germany. A Translation of Fumizukai and Excerpts from Doitsu Nikki.” Monumenta Nipponica 26, nos. 1–2 (1971). Broman, Thomas Hoyt. The Transformation of German Academic Medicine, 1750–1820. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Brown, Richard D. “The Founding Fathers of 1776 and 1787: A Collective View.” William and Mary Quarterly, 3rd ser. 33 (1976). Burks, Ardath W., ed. The Modernizers: Overseas Students, Foreign Employees, and Meiji Japan. Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1985. Burks, Ardath W. and Umetani Noboru, eds. Kindaika no suishinshatachi: Ryūgakusei oyatoi gaikokujin to Meiji. Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 1990. Burleigh, Michael, and Wolfgang Wippermann. The Racial State: Germany 1933–1945. Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Chakrabarty, Dipesh. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000. Chen, Hsiu-Jane. “Eine strenge Prüfung deutscher Art”: Der Alltag der japanischen Medizinausbildung im Zeitalter der Reform von 1868 bis 1914. Husum: Matthiesen Verlag, 2011.

218  Selected Bibliography Ciarlo, David. “Consuming Race, Envisioning Empire: Colonialism and German Mass Culture, 1885–1914.” PhD dissertation, University of Wisconsin–Madison, 2003. Cobbing, Andrew. The Japanese Discovery of Victorian Britain: Early Travel Encounters in the Far West. Richmond, Surrey: Japan Library, 1998. Cobbing, Andrew. The Satsuma Students in Britain: Japan’s Early Search for the “Essence of the West.” Richmond, Surrey: Japan Library, 2000. Conrad, Sebastian. Auf der Suche nach der verlorenen Nation: Geschichtsschreibung in Westdeutschland und Japan, 1945–1960. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999. Conrad, Sebastian. “What Time Is Japan? Problems on Comparative (Intercultural) Historiography.” History and Theory 38, no. 1 (1999). Conrad, Sebastian. German Colonialism: A Short History. Cambridge, NY: Cambridge University Press, 2012. Conrad, Sebastian, and Jürgen Osterhammel, eds. Das Kaiserreich transnational: Deutschland in Der Welt 1871–1914. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004. Cooper, Frederick, and Ann Laura Stoler, eds. Tensions of Empire: Colonial Cultures in a Bourgeois World. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997. Cortazzi, Hugh. Dr. Willis in Japan, 1862–1877: British Medical Pioneer. London: Athlone Press, 1985. Cortazzi, Hugh. Victorians in Japan: In and around the Treaty Ports. London: Athlone Press, 1987. Dickinson, Edward Ross. “Biopolitics, Fascism, Democracy: Some Reflections on Our Discourse about ‘Modernity.’” Central European History 37, no. 1 (2004). Donzé, Pierre-Yves. “Studies Abroad by Japanese Doctors: A Prosopographic Analysis of the Nameless Practitioners, 1862–1912.” Social History of Medicine 23, no. 2 (2010). Dowd, Patrick Schilling. “Rudolf Virchow and the Science of Humanity.” PhD dissertation, University of Pittsburgh, 1999. Eckart, Wolfgang Uwe. “Die Medizin als Instrument deutscher Kulturbeeinflussung in Ostasien: Deutsche Ärzte in Japan und China, 1871–1914.” Habilitationsschrift, University of Münster, 1985. Eckart, Wolfgang Uwe. Medizin und Kolonialimperialismus: Deutschland, 1884–1945. Paderborn: Schöningh, 1997. Frevert, Ute. “Europeanizing Germany’s Twentieth Century.” History and Memory: Studies in Representation of the Past 17, no. 1 (Fall 2005). Friedrichsmeyer, Sara, Sara Lennox, and Susan Zantop, eds. The Imperialist Imagination: German Colonialism and Its Legacy. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1998. Fujikawa, Hideo. “Kohōka to rangaku.” In Seitō shiwa: Nichi-doku bunka

Selected Bibliography  219 kōshōshi no sokumen. Tokyo: Tamagawa Daigaku Shuppanbu, 1974. Fujikawa, Yū. Geschichte der Medizin in Japan: Kurzgefasste Darstellung der Entwicklung der Japanischen Medizin mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Einführung der europäischen Heilkunde in Japan. Tokyo: KaiserlichJapanischen Unterrichtsministerium, 1911. Fukuzawa, Yukichi. “Rangaku kotohajime saihan no jo.” In Fukuzawa Yukichi zenshū. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1962. Garon, Sheldon. “Rethinking Modernization and Modernity in Japanese History: A Focus on State–Society Relations.” Journal of Asian Studies 53, no. 2 (May 1994). Gasser, Rudolf-Josef, and Christine Mitterwenger-Fessl, eds. Der Anatom Joseph Hyrtl, 1810–1894. Vienna: W. Maudrich, 1991. Geyer, Michael, and Charles Bright. “World History in a Global Age.” American Historical Review 100, no. 4 (October 1995). Gimmler, Harmut, and Yoshio Masuda, eds. 19 Würzburger Briefe des vereinsamten Studenten Jinzo Matsumura (1856–1928) an seine Familie in Japan (1886– 1887). Würzburg: Druck Schmitt & Meyer, 2001. Glisan, Rodney. Two Years in Europe. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1887. Gold, Hal. Unit 731: Testimony. Boston, Tokyo: Tuttle Publishing, 1996. Gordon, Andrew. A Modern History of Japan: From Tokugawa Times to the Present. New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003. Griffis, William Eliot. Verbeck of Japan: A Citizen of No Country. A Life Story of Foundation Work Inaugurated by Guido Fridolin Verbeck. New York: Fleming H. Revell, 1900. Grimmer-Solem, Erik. “German Social Science, Meiji Conservatism, and the Peculiarities of Japanese History.” Journal of World History 16, no. 2 (2005). Grimmer-Solem, Erik. “Die preußische Hochschulpolitik im Spannungsfeld des internationalen Kulturwettbewerbs: Der Fall Japan (1869–1914).” In Wolfgang Neugebauer and Bärbel Holtz, eds., Kulturstaat und Bürgergesellschaft: Preußen, Deutschland und Europa im 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhundert. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2010. Grob, B. The World of Auzoux: Models of Man and Beast in Papier-Mâché. Leiden: Museum Boerhaave, 2000. Grunden, Walter. Secret Weapons and World War II: Japan in the Shadow of Big Science. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2005. Grundwald, Erhard. “Myunhen daigaku o chūshin to shita igakuni okeru doku-nichi kankei, 1883 nen kara 1914 nen made.” Trans. Betubu Akirō. Daigaku ronshū (Hiroshima Daigaku) 21, 1991. Haasch, Günther, ed. Die Deutsch-Japanischen Gesellschaften von 1888 bis 1996. Berlin: Edition Colloquium, 1996. Haraguchi, Tadao. “Doitsu igaku saiyō mae no betsu na jijō – omoni Dajōkan kōbunsho yori no inrei.” Nihon ishigaku zasshi 26, no. 1 (1980).

220  Selected Bibliography Hardach-Pinke, Irene. “Die Meiji-Deutschen: Historische und soziale Bedingungen der Anfänge deutsch-japanischer Kulturkontakte in Japan.” Saeculum 38 (1987). Harootunian, Harry. Overcome by Modernity: History, Culture, and Community in Interwar Japan. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000. Harris, Sheldon. Factories of Death: Japanese Biological Warfare 1932–45 and the American Cover-Up. London: Routledge, 1995. Hartmann, Rudolf. Japanische Studenten an der Berlin Universität, 1870–1914. Berlin: Mori-Ōgai-Gedenkstätte der Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin, 2000. Hasegawa, Tsutomu. Tokyo Teidai Igakubu sori: Ikeda Kensai den. Tokyo: Shin Jinbutsu Ōraisha, 1989. Hayase, Yukiko. “The Career of Gotō Shinpei: Japan’s Statesman of Research, 1857–1929.” PhD dissertation, Florida State University, 1974. Heilbronner, Oded. “The German Bourgeois Club as a Political and Social Structure in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries.” Continuity and Change 13, no. 3 (1998). Hellyer, Robert I. Defining Engagement: Japan and Global Contexts, 1640–1868. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009. Hertz, Deborah. Jewish High Society in Old Regime Berlin. New Haven, London: Yale University Press, 1988. Hijiya-Kirschnereit, Irmela, ed. Kulturbeziehungen zwischen Japan und dem Westen seit 1853: Eine annotierte Bibliographie. Munich: Iudicium, 1999. Hill, Christopher. “Mori Ōgai’s Resentful Narrator: Trauma and the National Subject in ‘The Dancing Girl.’” Positions 10, no. 2 (Fall 2002). Hill, Christopher L. “National Histories and World Systems: Writing Japan, France, and the United States.” In Georg G. Iggers and Q. Edward Wang, eds., Turning Points in Historiography: A Cross-Cultural Perspective. Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2002. Hirakawa, Sukehiro. “The Meaning of Dutch Studies in Tokugawa Japan.” In Japan’s Love-Hate Relationship with the West. Folkestone, Kent: Global Orient, 2005. Hoffmann, Theodor. “Die Heilkunde in Japan und Japanische Aerzte.” Mitteilungen der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens 1, no. 1 (May 1873). Hopper, Helen Marlys. “The Conflict between Japanese Tradition and Western Learning in the Meiji Intellectual Mori Ōgai, 1862–1922.” PhD dissertation, Washington University, St Louis, 1976. Hoshi, Ryōichi. Gotō Shinpei den: Mirai o mitsumete ikita Meijijin. Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2005. Hoshi, Shinichi. Sofu Koganei Yoshikiyo no ki. Tokyo: Kawade Shobō Shinsha, 1974.

Selected Bibliography  221 Hwang, Sang-ik. Kŭndae ŭiryo ŭi p’unggyŏng. Seoul: P’urŭn Yŏksa, 2013. Ichikawa, Zenzaburō. Berutsu to Kusatsu onsen. Kusatsu-machi: Kusatsu Berutsu Kyōkai, 1980. Iijima, Wataru. “The Establishment of Japanese Colonial Medicine: Infectious and Parasitic Disease Studies in Taiwan, Manchuria, and Korea under the Japanese Rule before WWII.” Aoyama shigaku 28 (2010). Iikura, Akira. “The ‘Yellow Peril’ and Its Influence on Japanese–German Relations.” In Christian W. Spang and Rolf-Harald Wippich, eds., Japanese– German Relations, 1895–1945: War, Diplomacy, and Public Opinion. London and New York: Routledge, 2006. Ikeda, Kensai. Kaikoroku. Tokyo, 1917. Ikeda, Kensai. Puroisen koku Berurin: 1870–1873. Tokyo: Saiundō, 1984. Iriye, Akira. Mutual Images: Essays in American–Japanese Relations. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975. Iriye, Akira, and Edward Beauchamp, eds. Foreign Employees in NineteenthCentury Japan. Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1990. Irrgang, Stephanie. Peregrinatio academica: Wanderungen und Karrieren von Gelehrten der Universitaeten Rostock, Greifswald, Trier und Mainz im 15. Jahrhundert. Beitraege zur Geschichte der Universitaet Greifswald. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2002. Ishida, Sumio. “Shiga Kiyoshi to Keijō Teikoku Daigaku.” Nippon iji shinpō 4385 (2008). Ishida, S., and Willem J. Mulder. “Introduction of the Anatomie clastique to Japan.” Journal of the Japan Society of Medical History 30, no. 1 (1984). Ishiguro, Tadanori. Kaikyū kujūnen. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1983 [1936]. Ishihara, Aeka. Dokutorutachi no funtōki: Gēte ga michibiku nichi-doku igaku kōryū. Tokyo: Keiō Gijuku Daigaku Shuppankai, 2012. Ishihara, Aeka. “Japanische Medizinerinnen in Deutschland 1890–1905 Mizuko TAKAHASHI und Tada URATA.” Keiō Gijuku Daigaku. Hiyoshi Kiyō: Doitsugo-doitsu bungaku 49 (2012). Ishiyama, Ikuo, Gunther Geserick, and Wolfgang Keil.“Der Einfluss der Charité auf die Entwicklung der modernen Gerichtsmedizin in Japan.” Zeitschrift fuer Klinische Medizin 41 (1986). Ishizuki, Minoru, Kindai Nihon no kaigai ryūgakushi. Tokyo: Chūō Kōron, 1992 [1972]. Iwata, Masakazu. Ōkubo Toshimichi – the Bismarck of Japan. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1964. Iwaya, Sazanami. Briefe eines Japaners aus Deutschland übersetzt von Dr. A. Gramatzky mit einem Begleitwort und Anmerkungen herausgegeben von Pfarrer Dr. H. Haas. Bremen, 1904.

222  Selected Bibliography Jackson, Terrence. “Socialized Intellect: The Cultural Network of Rangaku in Late Tokugawa Japan.” PhD dissertation, Indiana University, 2004. Jaeckel, Gerhard. Die Charité: Die Geschichte eines Weltzentrums der Medizin von 1710 bis zur Gegenwart. Frankfurt am Main: Ullstein Sachbuch, 1999. Jannetta, Ann Bowman. “From Physician to Bureaucrat: The Case of Nagayo Sensai.” In Helen Hardacre with Adam L. Kern, eds., New Directions in the Study of Meiji Japan. New York, Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1997. Jannetta, Ann Bowman. “Nagayo Sensai.” In Doctors, Nurses, and Medical Practitioners. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1997. Jannetta, Ann Bowman. The Vaccinators: Smallpox, Medical Knowledge, and the “Opening” of Japan. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2007. Japanisch-Deutsche Zentrum Berlin, ed. Brückenbauer: Pioniere des japanischdeutschen Kulturaustausches. Munich: Iudicium, 2005. Johnston, William. The Modern Epidemic: A History of Tuberculosis in Japan. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995. Jones, H.J. Live Machines: Hired Foreigners and Meiji Japan. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1980. Jones, Russell. “American Doctors in Paris, 1820–1861: A Statistical Profile.” Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 25 (1970). Jones, Russell. “American Doctors and the Parisian Medical World, 1830– 1840.” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 47 (1975). Kajima, Ume. Hana Baelz: Die Frau des Japanarztes Erwin Baelz. Stuttgart: Deutsches Verlags-Anstalt, 1978. Japanese original: Berutsu Hana: Eruwin Fon Berutsu fujin no shōgai (Tokyo: Kajima Kenkyūjo Shuppankai, 1972). Kaku, Kōzō. Doitsu o yomeba Nihon ga mieru. Tokyo: Futami Shobō, 1991. Kanao, Seizō. Nagai Nagayoshi den. Tokyo: Nihon Yakugakkai, 1960. Kashioka, Tomihide. “Meiji Japan’s Study Abroad Program: Modernizing Elites and Reference Societies.” PhD dissertation, Duke University, 1982. Kanokogi, Toshinori. “Meiji shonen no doitsu igaku no dōnyū ni tsuite: Doitsu gawa shin shiryō ni yoru Tōkyō Daigaku shi hoi.” Tōkyō Daigaku shi kiyō 7 (1989). Kim, Hoi-eun. “Anatomically Speaking: The Kubo Incident and the Paradox of Race in Colonial Korea.” In Rotem Kowner and Walter Demel, eds., Race and Racism in Modern East Asia: Western and Eastern Constructions. Leiden: Brill, 2012. Kim, Hoi-eun. “Imaginary Terrain of German Orientalism: the Image of Japan in Die Gartenlaube, 1854–1902.” In Lee M. Roberts, ed., Germany and the Imagined East. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2005. Kim, Hoi-eun. “Measuring Asian-ness: Erwin Baelz’s Anthropological

Selected Bibliography  223 Expeditions in Fin-de-siècle Korea.” In Mary Rhiel and Veronika Fuechter, eds., Imagining Germany Imagining Asia: Essays in Asian-German Studies. Rochester: Camden House, 2013. Kira, Shirō. Bakumatsu kara haihan chiken made no seiyō igaku. Tokyo: Tsukiji Shokan, 2005. Kira, Shirō. Meijiki ni okeru doitsu igaku no juyō to fukyū: Tōkyō Daigaku igakubu gaishi. Tokyo: Tsukiji Shokan, 2010. Kira, Shirō. Nihon no seiyō igaku no oitachi: Nanbanjin torai kara Meiji Ishin made. Tokyo: Tsukiji Shokan, 2000. Kleinschmidt, Harald. Japan, Baelz und Württemberg: Aspekte der kulturellen und wirtschaftlichen Beziehungen zwischen Württemberg und Japan, 1861–1980. Stuttgart: Verlag in der villa, 1992. Koch, Matthias, and Sebastian Conrad, eds. Johannes Justus Rein Briefe eines deutschen Geographen aus Japan 1873–1875. Munich: Iudicium, 2006. Kowner, Rotem. “‘Lighter than yellow, but not enough’: Western Discourse on the Japanese ‘Race,’ 1854–1904,” The Historical Journal 43, no. 1 (2000). Kowner, Rotem, and Walter Demel, eds. Race and Racism in Modern East Asia: Western and Eastern Constructions. Leiden: Brill, 2012. Kraas, Ernst, and Y. Hiki, eds. 300 Jahre deutsch-japanische Beziehungen in der Medizin – Nichi-doku igaku kōryū no 300-nen. Tokyo, New York: SpringerVerlag, 1992. Kraas, Ernst, and Inge Umhauer. “Frühe Begegnung auf dem Gebiet der Medizin zwischen Japan und Deutschland.” In Günther Haasch and Albrecht Kloepfer, eds., Japan-Deutschland: Wechselbeziehungen III. Berlin: Deutsch-Japanische Gesellschaft Berlin, 1997. Krebs, Gerhard. “Deutschland und Pearl Harbor.” Historische Zeitschrift 253 (1991). Krebs, Gerhard, ed. Japan und Preußen. Munich: Iudicium, 2002. Kreiner, Josef, ed. Deutschland-Japan: Historische Kontakte. Bonn: Bouvier Verlag, 1984. Kuriyama, Shigehisa. “Between Mind and Eye: Japanese Anatomy in the Eighteenth Century.” In Charles Leslie and Allan Young, eds., Paths to Asian Medical Knowledge. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992. LaMarre, Thomas., “Bacterial Culture and Linguistic Colonies: Mori Rintarō’s Experiments with History, Science, and Language.” Positions 6, no. 3 (1998). LaMarre, Thomas., “Science, History, and Culture in the Late Meiji Period: Mori Rintarō’s Experiments.” In Helen Hardacre and Adam L. Kern, eds., New Directions in the Study of Meiji Japan. New York, 1997. Laver, Michael S. Japan’s Economy by Proxy in the Seventeenth Century: China, the Netherlands, and the Bakufu. Amherst, NY: Cambria, 2008.

224  Selected Bibliography Laver, Michael S. The Sakoku Edicts and the Politics of Tokugawa Hegemony. Amherst, NY: Cambria, 2011. Lehmann, Jean-Pierre. The Image of Japan: From Feudal Isolation to World Power, 1850–1905. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1979. Lepenies, Annette. “Eine japanisch-deutsche Gründergeschichte: Dr. Phil. Wilhelm Nagayoshi Nagai (1845–1929).” In Katalog zur Ausstellung “Dr. Phil. Wilhelm Nagayoshi Nagai (1845–1929). Eine japanish-deutsche Gründergeschichte.” Berlin: Japanisch-Deutsches Zentrum Berlin, 2000. Liu, Michael Shiyung. Prescribing Colonization: The Role of Medical Practices and Policies in Japan-Ruled Taiwan, 1895–1945. Ann Arbor: Association for Asian Studies, 2009. Liu, Shiyung. “Ripples of Rivalry.” East Asian Science, Technology and Society: An International Journal 2 (2008). Luyendijk-Elshout, A.M. “‘Ontleedinge’ (Anatomy) as Underlying Principle of Western Medicine in Japan.” In H. Beukers, A.M. Luyendijk-Elshout, M.E. van Opstall, and F. Vos, eds., Red-Haired Medicine: Dutch–Japanese Medical Relations. Amsterdam: Rodopi B.V., 1991. Maddison, Angus. The World Economy: A Millennial Perspective. Paris: OECD, 2001. Marchand, Suzanne. German Orientalism in the Age of Empire: Religion, Race, and Scholarship. Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Martin, Bernd. Deutschland und Japan in Zweiten Weltkrieg. Vom Angriff auf Pearl Harbor bis zur deutschen Kapitulation. Göttingen: Musterschmidt, 1969. Martin, Bernd. “Japanese-German Collaboration in the Development of Bacteriological and Chemical Weapons and the War in China.” In Christian W. Spang and Rolf-Harald Wippich, eds., Japanese–German Relations, 1895– 1945: War, Diplomacy, and Public Opinion. London, New York: Routledge, 2006. Martin, Bernd. Japan and Germany in the Modern World. Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1995. Martin, Bernd, ed. Japans Weg in die Moderne: Ein Sonderweg nach deutschem Vorbild? Frankfurt, New York: Campus Verlag, 1987. Martin, Bernd, and Gerhard Krebs, eds. Formierung und Fall der Achse BerlinTokyo. Munich: Iudicium, 1994. Matsuda, Makoto. “Mori Ōgai kara mita Takaki Kanehiro.” Tōkyō Jikeikai Ika Daigaku zasshi, 117 (2002). Matsuda, Makoto. “Takaki Kanehiro, Kitasato Shibasaburō ra no ishikai setsuritsu made no kunō: Nihon Ishikai zenshi.” Tōkyō Jikeikai Ika Daigaku zasshi 118, no. 1 (2003). Matsuda, Makoto. “Takaki Kanehiro to sono hihansha tachi: Kakke no gen’in ni tsuite tenkai sareta wagakuni saisho no igaku ronsō.” In Takaki Kanehiro no igaku. Tokyo: Tokyo Jikeikai Ika Daigaku, 2007.

Selected Bibliography  225 Matsumura, Noriaki, Yoshiyuki Hirono, and Yōko Matsubara. “Fujikawa Yū, Pioneer of the History of Medicine in Japan.” Historia Scientiarum 8, no. 2 (1998). Matsumura, Yoshimoto. Meiji bunmei kaiga no hanabana – Nihon ryūgakusei retsuden 3. Tokyo: Bungeisha, 2004. Meissner, Kurt. “Deutsche in Japan: 1639–1960.” Mitteilungen der Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens, Supplementband 26 (1961). Michaelis, Goerg. Georg Michaelis: Ein Preussischer Jurist im Japan Der Meiji-Zeit; Briefe, Tagebuchnotizen, Dokumente 1885–1889. Munich: Iudicium, 2001. Mikuriya, Takashi. Jidai no senkakusha Gotō Shinpei 1857–1929. Tokyo: Fujiwara Shoten, 2004. Miyajima, Mikinosuke. Kitasato Shibasaburō den. Tokyo: Kitasato Kenkyūjo, 1932. Miyajima, Mikinosuke. Robert Koch and Shibasaburo Kitasato. Geneva: Sonor, 1931. Miyake, Masaki. “Die Achse Berlin-Rome-Tokio im Spiegel der japanischen Quellen.” Mitteilungen des österreichischen Staatsarchivs 21 (1968). Miyake, Masaki. Nichi-Doku-I Sangoku Dōmei no kenkyū. Tokyo: Nansōsha, 1975. Miyanaga, Takashi. Nichi-doku bunka jinbutsu kōryūshi: Doitsugo kotohajime. Tokyo: Sanshūsha, 1993. Miyaoka, Kenji. Tabigeinin shimatsusho: Ikoku henro. Tokyo: Shūdōsha, 1971. Möllers, Bernhard. Robert Koch: Persönlichkeit und Lebenswerk, 1843–1910. Hannover: Schmorl & Von Seefeld, 1950. Mori, Ōgai. Dancing Girl [Maihime, 1890]. Trans. Richard Bowring. In J. Thomas Rimer, ed., Youth and Other Stories. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1994. Mori, Ōgai. Daydreams [Mōsō, 1911]. Trans. Richard Bowring. In J. Thomas Rimer, ed., Mori Ōgai: Youth and Other Stories. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1994. Mori, Ōgai. Deutschlandtagebuch 1884–1888. Trans. Heike Schöche. Tübingen: Konkursbuch, 1992. Mori, Rintarō. “The Truth about Japan: Two Articles.” Trans. Sarah Cox Smith. In J. Thomas Rimer, ed., Not a Song Like Any Other: An Anthology of Writings by Mori Ōgai. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004. Mori, Ōgai. Vita Sexualis [1909]. Trans. Kazuji Ninomiya and Sanford Goldsten. Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle Company, 1972. Mori, Ōgai. The Wild Goose [Gan, 1911–13]. Trans. Burton Watson. Ann Arbor: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan, 1995. Mori, Rintarō. “Yamatokwai.” In Japan und Seine Gesundheitspflege. Tokyo: 1911. Morita, Yoshichika. Gekai Satō Susumu – Kindai Nihon no ayumi mesu de sasaeru. Hitachiota: Hitachiota-shi, 1981. Morikawa, Jun. “Doitsu igaku no saiyō ni kansuru mitsu no gimon o megutte.” Nihon ishigaku zasshi 39, no. 3 (1993).

226  Selected Bibliography Morikawa, Jun. “Doitsu igaku no shuyō katei – Myunhen daigaku ryūgakusei o chūshin to shite.” Kyōikugaku kenkyū 52, no. 4 (1985). Morikawa, Jun. Doitsu vissenshafuto ishoku no tansho ni tsuite: Kanpi ryūgakusei no Doitsu haken made. Hiroshima: Hiroshima Shūdō Daigaku Sōgō Kenkyūjo, 1993. Müller, Leopold. “Tokyo-Igaku: Skizzen und Erinnerungen aus der Zeit des geistigen Umschwungs in Japan, 1871–1876.” Deutsche Rundschau (1888). Müller, Leopold. Tokyo-Igaku. Trans. Ishibashi Choei, Ogawa Teizo, and Imai Tadashi. Tokyo: Hekisutojapan (Nihon Kokusai Igaku Kyōkai), 1975. Munk, Fritz. Das medizinische Berlin um die Jahrhundertwende. Munich: Urban & Schwarzenberg, 1979. Nakai, Yoshiyuki. Ōgai ryūgaku shimatsu. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1999. Nakai, Yoshiyuki. “The Young Mori Ōgai: 1862–1892.” PhD dissertation, Harvard University, 1974. Nakamura, Ellen Gardner. Practical Pursuits: Takano Chōei, Takahashi Keisaku, and Western Medicine in Nineteenth-Century Japan. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005. Nakamura, Naomi. “Berutsu no mita Meiji Nihon.” Shakai kagaku tōkyū 43, no. 2 (1997). Namier, Lewis. The Structure of Politics at the Accession of George III. London: Macmillan, 1929. Nanta, Arnaud. “Physical Anthropology and the Reconstruction of Japanese Identity in Postcolonial Japan.” Social Science Japan Journal 11, no. 1 (2008). Neale, R.S. Class and Ideology in the Nineteenth Century. London, Boston: Routledge, 1971. Nichidoku Igaku Kyōkai. Ko Hisada fukukaichō tsuitōshi. Tokyo: 1942. von Niemeyer, Felix. Lehrbuch der speciellen Pathologie und Therapie mit besonderer Rücksicht auf Physiologie und pathologische Anatomie. Berlin: A. Hirschwald, 1859–61. Nihon Joikai, ed. Nihon Joishi: Tsuiho. Tokyo: Nihon Joikai, 1991. Noll, Heike. “Japanische Medizinstudenten an der Königlichen FriedrichsWilhelm-Universität zu Berlin von 1870 bis 1939.” Diplomarbeit aus dem Institut für Geschichte der Medizin der Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin Bereich Medizin (Charité). Berlin, 1990. Oberländer, Christian. “The Introduction of ‘German Medicine’ in Japan in the 1870s: ‘Heteronomous Modernization’ and ‘Internal Colonization.’” In Shizu Sakai, Tatsuo Sakai, Christian Oberländer, and Yasutaka Ichinokawa, eds., Transaction in Medicine and Heteronomous Modernization. Tokyo: University of Tokyo Center for Philosophy, 2009. Oberländer, Christian. “The Rise of Western ‘Scientific Medicine’ in Japan: Bacteriology and Beriberi.” In Morris Low, ed., Building a Modern Japan:

Selected Bibliography  227 Science, Technology, and Medicine in the Meiji Era and Beyond. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Oberländer, Christian. Zwischen Tradition und Moderne: Die Bewegung für den Fortbestand der Kanpō-Medizin in Japan. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1995. Ōhashi, Akio, and Hirano Hideo. Meiji Ishin to aru oyatoi gaikokujin: Furubekki no shōgai. Tokyo: Shin Jinbutsu Ōraisha, 1988. Okamoto, Takashi. Kaibō kotohajime: Yamawaki Tōyō no hito to shisō. Tokyo: Dōseisha, 1988. Okubo, Toshiaki. “The Birth of the Modern University in Japan.” Cahiers d’Histoire Mondiale / Journal of World History 10, no. 4 (1967). Osawa, Gakutaro. “Zur Geschichte der Anatomie in Japan.” Anatomischer Anzeiger: Centralblatt für die gesamte wissenschaftliche Anatomie 11, nos. 16–17 (1896). Ōsawa, Kenji. Tōei chūgo. Tokyo: Tōdai Seirigaku Dōsōkai, 1979 [1928]. Osterhammel, Jürgen. Geschichtswissenschaft jenseits des Nationalstaats: Studien zu Beziehungsgeschichte und Zivilisationsvergleich. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2001. Ōtani, F. One Hundred Years of Health Progress in Japan. Tokyo: International Medical Foundation of Japan, 1971. Ōtori, Ranzaburō. “The Acceptance of Western Medicine in Japan.” Monumenta Nipponica 19, nos. 3–4 (1964). Otsubo, Sumiko. “The Female Body and Eugenic Thought in Meiji Japan.” In Morris Low, ed., Building a Modern Japan: Science, Technology, and Medicine in the Meiji Era and Beyond. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Otsubo, Sumiko, and James R. Bartholomew. “Eugenics in Japan: Some Ironies of Modernity, 1883–1945.” Science in Context 11, nos. 3–4 (1998). Park, Yunjae. Han’guk kŭndae ŭihak ŭi kiwŏn. Seoul: Heyan, 2005. Park, Yunjae. “T’onggambu ŭi ŭihak chibae chŏngch’aek kwa Tonginhoe.” Tongbanghakchi 119 (2002). Peattie, Mark R. “The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945.” In Peter Duus, ed., The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 6. Cambridge, 1988. Penny, H. Glenn, and Matti Bunzl, eds. Worldly Provincialism: German Anthropology in the Age of Empire. Ann Arbor: Michigan University Press, 2003. Peukert, Detlev. Inside Nazi Germany: Conformity, Opposition, and Racism in Every­ day Life. Trans. Richard Deveson. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987. Peukert, Detlev. The Weimar Republic: The Crisis of Classical Modernity. Trans. Richard Deveson. New York: Hill and Wang, 1993. Proctor, Robert. Racial Hygiene: Medicine under the Nazis. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988. Rauck, Michael. Japanese in the German Language and Cultural Area, 1865–1914: A General Survey. Tokyo: Tokyo Metropolitan University, 1994.

228  Selected Bibliography Rimer, J. Thomas, ed. Not a Song Like Any Other: An Anthology of Writings by Mori Ōgai. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004. Roretz, Albrecht. “Medizin und Unterrichtswesen in Japan.” Wiener Medizinische Wochenschrift 27, no. 19 (1877). Sakano, Tōru, “Kōzuka no seijigaku – Tsuboi Shōgorō to Meijiki jinruigaku no kiseki.” Shisō 907 (2000). Sansom, George B. The Western World and Japan. New York: Alfred Knopf, 1962. Sapporo, Izumi. Meiji tennō no jii Ikeda Kensai. Tokyo: Takasaki Ayako, 1991. Schauwecker, Detlef. “Aspekte der Medizingesichte Japans im 16.–19. Jhdt. und der Deutschlandaufenthalt des japanischen Schriftstellers und Mediziners Ōgai Mori in den Jahren 1884–1888.” Sudhoffs Archiv 66, no. 4 (1982). Scheer, Christian. “Dr. med. Leopold Müller (1824–1893). Chef des Militärsanitätswesens der Republik Haiti, Leibarzt des Kaisers von Japan, Leitender Arzt des königlich preußischen Garnisonlazaretts in Berlin. Eine nichtalltägliche Biographie aus der Geschichte des Invalidenfriedhofes.” In Wolfgang Voigt and Kurt Wernicke, eds., Stadtgeschichte im Fokus von Kulturund Sozialgeschichte; Festschrift für Laurenz Demps. Berlin: Trafo Verlag, 2006. Schenck, Paul-Christian. Der deutsche Anteil an der Gestaltung des modernen japanischen Rechts- und Verfassungswesens: Deutsche Rechtsberater im Japan der Meiji-Zeit. Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1997. Scherer, Friedrich. Adler und Halbmond: Bismarck und der Orient 1878–1890. Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2001. Schlieper, Andreas. Die Nähe fremder Kulturen: Parallelen zwischen Japan und Deutschland. Frankfurt, New York: Campus, 1997. Schmid, Andre. Korea between Empires, 1895–1919. New York: Columbia University Press, 2002. Schmidt-Muraki, Masumi. ‘Hana Berutsu’ e no tabi. Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1993. Schmiedel, Otto. Die Deutschen in Japan. Leipzig: K.F. Koehler, 1920. Schultze, Emma. Letters from Meiji Japan: Correspondence of a German Surgeon’s Wife, 1878–1881. Trans. Charlotte T Marshall in collaboration with John Z. Bowers. New York: Josiah Macy Jr. Foundation, 1980. Schultze, Emma. Meiji shoki oyatoi ishi fusai no seikatsu: Shurutse fujin no tegami kara. Trans. Koseki Tsuneo and Kitamura Tomoaki. Tokyo: Gendōsha, 1987. Schultze, Wilhelm. Ein Deutscher Chirurg und Seine Frau in Japan vor 100 Jahren: Briefe von Dr. Wilhelm Schultze und Seiner Frau Emma Geb. Wegscheider an D. Eltern Dr. Wegscheidern in Berlin aus Japan 1878–1881. Lübeck: T. Hesekiel, 1980. Seaman, Louis L. The Real Triumph of Japan: The Conquest of the Silent Foe. New York: D. Appleton and Company, 1906. Shiga, K. “Die Ärzte in Japan.” Die Zeitschrift für Missionskunde und Religionswissenschaft 21 (1906): 184–6.

Selected Bibliography  229 Shiga, Kiyoshi. Nidome no Doitsu. Tokyo: Nanzandō Shoten, 1913. Siary, Gérard. “The Image of Japan in European Travelogues from 1853 to 1905.” Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan, 4th ser., vol. 2 (1987). Siary, Gérard. “De l’utopie à l’aporie: La représentation du Japon chez les voyageurs anglais et français de 1853 à 1912.” Corps écrit (Représentations du Japon) 17 (1986). Sin, Tong-wŏn, Han’guk kŭndae pogŏn ŭiryosa. Seoul: Hanul, 1997. Sōma, Hisayasu. “Berutsu no nikki – fudatsu no hōyaku ni yosete.” Kokubungaku kaishaku to kanshō 60, no. 3 (1995). Spang, Christian W., and Rolf-Harald Wippich, “Introduction – from ‘German Measles’ to ‘Honorary Aryans’: An Overview of Japanese–German Relations until 1945.” In Spang and Wippich, eds., Japanese–German Relations, 1895– 1945: War, Diplomacy, and Public Opinion. London, New York: Routledge, 2006. Steinmetz, George. The Devil’s Handwriting: Precoloniality and the German Colonial State in Qingdao, Samoa, and Southwest Africa. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007. Stern, Fritz. “Paul Ehrlich: The Founder of Chemotherapy.” In Einstein’s German World. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999. Sterry, Lorraine. “Constructs of Meiji Japan: The Role of Writing by Victorian Women Travellers.” Japanese Studies 23, no. 2 (2003). Stoler, Ann Laura. Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power: Race and the Intimate in Colonial Rule. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002. Stone, Lawrence. “Prosopography.” In Past and Present Revisited. London, New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1987. Suleski, Ronald. “Japanese Studies in Asia: The Asiatic Society of Japan.” Tsūshin 4, no. 1, (1998). Suzuki, Hisashi. “Koganei Yoshikiyo sensei (1858–1944) to Erwin von Baelz hakushi (1858–1913).” Jinruigaku zasshi 82, no. 1 (1974). Szippel, Richard. “Max von Brandt and German Imperialism in East Asia in the Late Nineteenth Century.” PhD dissertation, University of Notre Dame, 1989. Tachibana, Takashi. “Meiji yonen, Tōdai Igakubu wa gakusei no hachiwari o taigaku saseta.” Bungeishunju 76, no. 9 (1998). Takahashi, Kiyoshi. “1888 nen no hokkaidō chōsa ryokō: Tsuboi ShōgorōKoganei Yoshikiyo no jinruigaku teki chōsa.” Kōkogaku shi kenkyū 7 (1997). Tamai, Kisak. Karawanen-Reise in Sibirien von Kisak Tamai aus Japan. Mit Anhang: Weltreise mehrerer Japaner über Sibirien von 100 Jahren. Berlin: K. Siegismund, 1898. Terazawa, Yuki. “Gender, Knowledge, and Power: Reproductive Medicine in Japan, 1690–1930.” PhD dissertation, University of California, Los Angeles, 2001.

230  Selected Bibliography Thiede, Arnulf, Yoshiki Hiki, and Gundolf Keil, eds. Philipp Franz von Siebold and His Era: Prerequisites, Developments, Consequences and Perspectives. Heidelberg: Springer, 2000. Thompson, E.P. “Time, Work-Discipline and Industrial Capitalism.” Past and Present 38 (December 1967). Tokyo Daigaku. List of the Professors engaged in Tokio-Daigaku beginning from the year 1870. Tokyo Daigaku Igakubu Sōritsu Hyakunen Kinenkai, ed. Tokyo Daigaku Igakubu hyakunenshi. Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1967. Tomimura, Tarō. Hagiwara Sankei no ryūgaku. Tokyo: Gōgakusha, 1981. Tomita, Hiroshi, ed. Umi o koeta Nihon jinmei jiten. Tokyo: Nichigai Asoshiētsu, 1985. Trofal, Andrew F., Hannah Ueno-Olsen, Ruiko Oiwa, and Masanosuke Yoshikawa. “Dr. Kiyoshi Shiga: Discoverer of the Dysentery Bacillus.” Clinical Infectious Diseases 29, no. 5 (1999). Tsuboya, Suisai, ed. Igaku hakushi Satō Susumu sensei jiden. Tokyo, 1899. Tsuneshi, Kei-ichi. “The Research Guarded by Military Secrecy: The Isolation of the E.H.F. Virus in Japanese Biological Warfare Unit.” Historia Scientiarum 30 (1986). Tsurumi, Yūsuke. Seiden Gotō Shinpei: Isha jidai, zenshi 1893 nen. Tokyo: Fujiwara Shoten, 2004. Teeuwen, Mark. “Western Learning in Japan.” In Oliver Leaman, ed., Encyclopedia of Asian Philosophy. London: Routledge, 2001. Ueno, Masuzō. Oyatoi gaikokujin: Shizen kagaku. Tokyo: Kajima Kenkyujō Shuppankai, 1968. Umezawa, Hikotarō, ed. Okada Kazuichirō sensei den. Tokyo: Nihon Iji Shinpōsha, 1943. Uzaki, Kumakichi. Aoyama Tanemichi. Tokyo: Aoyama Naika Dōsōkai, 1930. Veith, Ilza. “European Impressions of Japanese Medicine during the Tokugawa Period.” Nihon ishigaku zasshi 10, no. 4 (1964). Veith, Ilza. “On the Mutual Indebtedness of Japanese and Western Medicine.” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 52 (1978). Vianden, H. “Deutsche Ärzte im Japan der Meiji-Zeit.” In Josef Kreiner, ed., Deutschland-Japan: Historische Kontakte. Bonn: Bouvier, 1984. Vianden, Hermann Heinrich. Die Einführung der deutschen Medizin in der MeijiZeit. Düsseldorfer Arbeiten zur Geschichte der Medizin, 58. Düsseldorf: Triltsch Verlag, 1985. von Waldeyer-Hartz, Wilhelm. Wie soll man Anatomie lehren and lernen. Berlin: A. Hirschwald, 1884. Warner, John Harley. Against the Spirit of System: The French Impulse in NineteenthCentury American Medicine. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998.

Selected Bibliography  231 Watanabe, Minoru. Kindai Nihon kaigai ryūgakuseishi. Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1977–8. Weegmann, Carl von. “85 Jahre O.A.G.” Mitteilungen der Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Völkerkunde Ostasiens 34, part F (1961). Weindling, Paul. Health, Race, and German Politics between National Unification and Nazism, 1870–1945. Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Weindling, Paul. “Medicine and Modernization: The Social History of German Health and Medicine.” History of Science 24 (1986). Werner, Michael, and Bénédicte Zimmermann. “Beyond Comparison: Histoire Croisée and the Challenge of Reflexivity.” History and Theory 45, no. 1 (2006). Wernich, Albrecht. “Über die Fortschritte der modernen Medicin in Japan.” In Berliner Klinischen Wochenschrift, 9 August 1875. Williams, Peter, and David Wallace. Unit “731”: Japan’s Secret Biological Warfare in World War Two. New York: Free Press, 1989. Winau, Rolf. Medizin in Berlin: Mit einem Geleitwort des Regierenden Bürgermeisters von Berlin, Eberhard Diepgen. Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1987. Wippich, Rolf-Harald. Japan als Kolonie? Max von Brandts Hokkaidō-Projekt 1865/67. Hamburg: Abera, 1997. Wippich, Rolf-Harald. “Max von Brandt und die Gründung der OAG (Gesellschaft für Natur-und Völkerkunde Ostasiens): Die erste deutsche wissenschaftliche Vereinigung in Ostasien.” Doitsugo ken kenkyū 11 (1994). Yajima, Michiko. “Hilgendorf Predated Morse in Bringing Charles Darwin’s Theory of Evolution to Japan.” Historia Scientiarum 8, no. 2 (1998). Yamazaki, Mitsuo, Meiji nijūichi-nen rokugatsu mikka: Ōgai ‘Berurin shashin’ no nazo o toku. Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2012. Yi, Ch’ung-ho. “Tonginhoe ŭi ŭisa kyoyuk hwaltong.” Ŭisahak 4 (1995). Yokoyama, Toshio. Japan in the Victorian Mind: A Study of Stereotyped Images of a Nation, 1850–80. London: Macmillan, 1987. Zantop, Susan. Colonial Fantasies: Conquest, Family, and Nation in Precolonial Germany, 1770–1870. Durham: Duke University Press, 1997. Ziegler, Herbert F. Nazi Germany’s New Aristocracy: The SS Leadership, 1925– 1939. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989. Zimmerman, Andrew. Anthropology and Antihumanism in Imperial Germany. Chicago, London: University of Chicago Press, 2001. Zimmerman, Andrew. “Anthropology and the Place of Knowledge in Imperial Germany.” PhD dissertation, UC San Diego, 1998. Zimmerman, Andrew. “Ethnologie im Kaiserreich: Natur, Kultur und ‘Rasse’ in Deutschland und Seinen Kolonien.” In Sebastian Conrad and Jürgen Osterhammel, eds., Das Kaiserreich transnational: Deutschland in Der Welt 1871–1914. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004.

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Index

aberration theory (Sonderweg thesis), 7, 13, 18 Aichi Prefectural Hospital (Nagoya), 65 Ainu people, 97, 115, 119 Allgemeine Zeitung, Naumann-Mori dispute in, 97–100 anatomy: anthropological, 118–19; and Japanese medical students, 28–9; and modernity, 27–9; physiognomic, 118–19; traditional Japanese medicine and disease etiology, 27; Western concept of, 27–9 Ancient Learning, 36 Anderson, William, 142–3 Anglo-Japanese Alliance (1902), 7, 158 “Anthropologischen Methoden” (Schmidt), 120 anthropology: Baelz and, 112, 117–18; changes in outlook, 104; comparative, 114, 119; German physicians in Japan and, 5, 103; in Japan, 117–18; and Japanese imperial expansion, 12, 104; physical measurements in, 119–21; and physiognomic anatomy, 118–19; and race, 104, 153

Aoki Shūzō: Baelz and, 49, 116, 117; Berlin house as gathering place, 81; and Japanese culture and people, 94; at Lagerström’s boarding house, 77, 78; length of journey to Germany, 62–3; and Mori, 54, 94; and Schultze, 50; as student in Berlin, 74 Aoyama Tanemichi, 137f; on academic quality of Japanese students in Germany, 56; and bacteriology, 139–40; and bubonic plague, 135, 136; and Dōjinkai, 155; on Japan as German colony in medical science, 3–4; and Kitasato, 137–8; Kitasato and Mori compared to, 139; and Kitasato’s institute, 135; and Koch, 139, 140; selection as overseas student, 188n34; and Tokyo Imperial University, 139 army (Japanese): Baelz and, 142; and beriberi, 140, 144, 146, 147; creation of, 142; German influence on establishment of, 6; Medical Corps, 142, 146; medical school, 142; Mori as surgeon general, 139; Second Imperial, 17; Unit 731, 7, 13, 156

234 Index Asiatic Society of Japan, 105–6 atrocities, medical, 13, 156 Auschwitz, 7, 13 autopsies, 36 Auzoux, Louis Thomas Jérôme, 32 bacteriology: adoption in Japan, 126; Baelz and, 127; and beriberi, 132, 141, 144, 148; and bubonic plague, 135–6; colonialism and, 12; importance of, 139–40; in Japan, 128; Kitasato and, 128, 139, 154; Koch and, 147; medical factions and, 147–8, 155; pathological cause of disease vs., 71; Pettenkofer and, 128; and warfare, 156 Baelz, Erwin: and annexation of Korea, 115–16, 122; and anthropology, 112, 117–18; and Aoyama, 135; and Army Medical Corps, 142; and beriberi, 141–2; as biosopher, 112; on Brandt, 160; bust of, 3–4, 4f; career in Japan, 48, 116; and cellular pathology, 127–8, 141; departure from Japan, 149–50; as father of modern medical science in Japan, 48; and German influence on Japanese medical science, 48; on German nature of Japanese medicine, 5; on German-Japanese political relations, 159–60; imperial condescension of, 113; influence on medical students, 141–2; isolation of, 116; and Japanese as race, 112–13, 114–16, 119, 153; on Japanese lack of understanding of ­European Spirit, 113–14; on Japanese modernization, 114; and Japan-Korea Protectorate

Treaty, 117; Koganei and, 118; and Koreans as racial type, 114–15; marginalization/isolation of, 52, 141–2; on medical students, 51; Miura and, 70; Müller compared to, 112, 113; and OAG, 105, 108; and Ogata, 128; opinions regarding German affairs, 116; orientalism of, 116–17, 122; on over-Germanization of Japanese medical science, 51–2; “Physical Characteristics of the Japanese, The” (Körperlichen Eigenschaften der Japaner), 118; and physical measurements, 112–13, 114–15; private practice, 50–1; and racial components of Japanese and Koreans, 117; and racial types associated with social classes, 115; recruiting of, 48–50; reputation in Japan vs. Germany, 116, 117–18; retirement, 52; salary, 50; on science vs. practicality in medical teaching, 51; sculpture of, 47–8; securing of Tokyo position, 116; with students, 49f; theory of racial composition, 117, 122; writings and research in Japan, 112 Bartholomew, James R., 125, 127, 165–6n17 Bastian, Adolf, 103, 106 Bauduin, Antonius François, 20, 29 Bay, Alexander R., 127, 140, 146 Behring, Emil von, 72 beriberi: and army, 140; bacillus, 132–3, 138, 144–5; bacteriology and, 140, 141, 144, 148; Batavian expedition, 140–1; dietary causation theory, 143–4, 145, 146–7;

Index 235 environmental conditions for, 143; etiological agents, 131, 132, 140–1; as infectious disease, 140, 141; and Japanese workers, 140; misdiagnosis of, 126; and navy, 143–4 Beriberi Research Commission, 140 Berlin: Anthropological Society, 103, 106, 118; Deutsche Orient Gesellschaft, 106; Institute for Infectious Diseases (Institut für Infektionskrankheiten), 68; Mori Ōgai on, 88, 90; research institutions in, 67–8; Tokyo compared to, 90–1 Berlin University: fields of medicine at, 75; Japanese medical students at, 61–5, 62, 67–9, 70, 75; matriculation registers, 61; other German medical education facilities compared to, 70; Seminar for Oriental Languages, 83; women medical students, 67, 190n47 Berlin-Beer-Society (Berlin-BierGesellschaft, Berlin-Bakushu-Kai), 157–8, 159f Bethmann-Hollweg, Theobald von, 56 Bigelow, Horatio R., 68, 69 Bismarck, Otto von, 22, 24 Bock, Carl Ernst, Buch von gesunden und kranken Menschen, Das, 32 Boshin Civil War, 21 Bourdieu, Pierre, 57 Bowers, John Z., 18–19, 50–1, 153, 165n16, 204n37; Western Medical Pioneers in Feudal Japan, 175n47 Brandt, Max von, 22–4, 39, 105, 160, 196n130 Braun, Otto, 98 Britain: Japanese study abroad program students in, 60; medical

education style, 142–3; medical science in, 20, 21 bubonic plague, 135–8, 147 Buch von gesunden und kranken Menschen, Das (Bock), 32 Buddhism, 96 Bülow, Bernhard Ernst von, 23, 43 Café Krebs, 81–2, 91 cellular pathology: Baelz and, 127, 128; germ theory of disease vs., 71; Koch’s tubercle bacillus and, 127–8; Virchow and, 127–8 Charité, 67 Charter Oath of April 1868, 58 Chen Hsiu-Jane, 166n17 China: German economic aspirations in, 159; influence of civilization on Japanese people, 97; Japanese imperialism in, 7; medicine of, 36, 42, 181n45; Sino-Japanese Wars, 140, 147, 156, 158 cholera: Koch and, 128, 130; Meedervoort and, 29; Ogata and, 131; opening of Japan and, 19–20; Pettenkofer and, 128–9, 131; and Sino-Japanese War (1894–5), 140 Cochius, Hermann, 39, 105 colonialism: German, 11, 122, 159; German physicians in Japan and, 103; in German-Japanese connections, 11, 22; internal, within Japan, 119; Müller and Hoffmann at Tokyo Medical School and, 41–2 comma bacillus, 130 Confucianism, 36 Confucius, Koch’s head compared to, 125 Conrad, Sebastian, 8

236 Index constitution (Japanese): German influence on, 6; Prussian model for, 19 contagionism, and cholera, 128–9 Daigaku-Nankō, 33, 38 Dancing Girl, The (Mori), 88, 90, 185n3 Darwinism, 46, 72 Daydreams (Mori), 154 Deshima, 26, 27 Deutsche Gesellschaft für Naturund Voelkerkunde Ostasiens (German Society for the Natural History and Ethnology of East Asia (OAG)). See German Society for the Natural History and Ethnology of East Asia (Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Voelkerkunde Ostasiens (OAG)) Deutsche Orient Gesellschaft (Berlin), 106 Devil’s Handwriting: Precoloniality and the German Colonial State (Steinmetz), 12 diseases: beriberi and, 140, 141; causes and treatments of, 5; diagnoses, 36; diet and, 144; medical school at Tōdō Yashiki and, 33; mortality rate from, 17, 20; opening of Japan and, 19–20; pathological vs. bacteriological etiology of, 71; traditional understanding of anatomy and etiology of, 27. See also names of individual diseases Disse, Joseph, 52 dissections, 46, 68 Dōjinkai (Association of Universal Benevolence), 155–6 Dōmei-kai, 80 Dönitz, Friedrich Karl Wilhelm, 39, 44, 105

Donzé, Pierre-Yves, 190n44 Du Bois-Reymond, Emil, 67, 75 Dutch East India Company, 26, 28 Dutch Learning (rangaku): about, 26–8; of Japanese medical students in Germany, 75; legacy of, 25; Meiji government and, 29; in Nagasaki, 26; origin of, 26; Sagara and Iwasa and, 20, 21; and socialized intellect, 57 Dutch medicine: German vs., 20–1; physicians, 26–7; texts as originally German, 18, 20–1 dysentery bacillus (Shigella dysenteriae), 152 Eckart, Wolfgang U., Medizin und Kolonialimperialismus, 11–12 Ehrlich, Paul, 152 Einführung der deutschen Medizin in der Meiji-Zeit (Vianden), 165n16, 171n10 Einstein, Alberta, 126 eisei (sanitation/hygiene), 72 elites (Japanese): in Germany, 60–1; and soft power, 158 Emmerich, Rudolf, 130 Erhlich, Paul, 67 eugenics, 212n12 Evans, Richard, 129, 133–4 feudalism: Europeans and, 103; and German-Japanese medical relations, 18–19; and medical atrocities, 156 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb, 99 First World War: and GermanJapanese relations, 158; Japanese participation in, 7, 149 France: bacteriology in, 71; Japanese study-abroad program students

Index 237 in, 60; and Triple Intervention, 158; war with Prussia, 19, 23, 25 Frank, Fritz, 71 Fränkel, Albert, 71 Frerichs, Friedrich Theodor, 75 Fukijawa Yū, 27–8 Fukushima Yasumasa, 82 Fukuzawa Yukichi, 21, 27, 134 Funk, Hermann, 39 Furuya Tsunejirō, 190n45 Futaki Kenzō, 65–6 Gartenlaube, Die: on accommodation of Japanese students in Germany, 79; on Japanese students in Berlin, 90 Geographical Society in Dresden meeting, 94–6 germ theory of disease, 71. See also bacteriology German language: increased Japanese study of, 23; and interpreters at Tokyo Medical School, 38; in Japanese medical education, 4; Japanese medical students in Germany and, 74, 76, 79–80; in medical education, 45; in medical preparatory schools, 36, 39, 45; Satō Susumu and, 79 German physician instructors: influence in Japan vs. Germany, 151; Japanese physician instructors vs., 150 German physician instructors in Japan, 5–6; German cultural/racial prejudices and, 159; Japanese physician instructors vs., 43–4, 47, 48, 52; military physicians as, 22–3, 43, 49; and modernization, 58; numbers of, 18; salaries, 58; and second

generation of Japanese medical men in Germany, 75–6; and teaching as showing vs. reading, 35–6; and transformation of Japanese medical profession, 17–18 German physicians in Japan: and colonialism, 103; cultural border crossings and self-transformation by, 104; imperial condescension by, 101; journey to Japan, 102–3; and OAG, 103, 105–6; orientalism of, 98, 103; and race, 153; self-­differentiation from Japanese culture and people, 103; study of Japanese people and culture, 101 German Society for the Natural History and Ethnology of East Asia (Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Voelkerkunde Ostasiens (OAG)), 103, 104, 105–8, 109, 121–2 German-Japanese relations: adoption of German medical science, 18–19; as asymmetrical, 9–10, 150–1; Baelz and, 112, 159–60; and Berlin-Beer-Society, 158; Brandt and, 160; colonialism and, 11, 22; deterioration in, 7, 149–50; development of, 18–19; exceptionalism of, 7; feudalism and, 18–19; First World War and, 149; German colonialism and, 159; in historiography, 6–8; and modernity/ modernization, 6–7, 151; neardominance of German medicine in, 152–3; prosopography and, 10–11; push and pull factors, 149; reciprocal aspects of, 165n16; Siebold and, 26–7; soft power and, 12, 158–9; Triple Intervention and,

238 Index 158; Weltpolitik and, 158; “Yellow Peril” campaign and, 158 Germans: expatriates in Japan, 106–7, 109; images of indigenous peoples and colonialism, 122; lack of geographical knowledge, 93; perceptions of Japanese people and Japan, 92–6, 102–3 Gierke, Hans Paul Bernhard, 44 Glisan, Rodney, 73 Gotō Shinpei: at 10th International Medical Congress in Berlin, 73f; about, 4–5; achievements of, 55; career, 65; doctorate degree from Munich, 65–6; and German perceptions of Japan, 93, 94; and Kitasato, 134; at Lagerström’s boarding house, 77; length of stay in Germany, 65–6; in Munich, 65–6; and Pettenkofer, 65; and scientific colonialism, 4–5, 134; in Taiwan, 4–5, 134, 151 Government-General Hospital (Chōsen Sōtokufu I’in; Seoul), 152 Greater Japan Medical Association (Dai Nippon Ishikai), 127 Grimmer-Solem, Erik, 22, 160 Gusserow, Adolf, 67, 68 Hagiwara Sankei, 62–3, 74, 75, 78 Hamao Arata, 3 Harootunian, Harry, 8–9 Hartmann, Rudolf, 64, 189n43 Hasegawa Tai, 38 Hashimoto Haru, 74 Hashimoto Tsunatsune, 54, 74, 142 Health Bureau at Ministry of Home Affairs, 65 Hellyer, Robert I., 26 Helmholtz, Hermann von, 67

Henoch, Eduard, 75 Hilgendorf, Franz Martin, 39, 46, 51, 105 Hirakawa Sukehiro, 28 Hirata Tōsuke, 77 Hisada Tetsuo, 150 Hoffmann, Theodor: achievements/legacy, 42–3, 52; appointment of, 23–4; as colonizer, 41–2; and conditions at medical school, 32; and curriculum, 46; departure from Japan, 42; lectures to Japanese medical students, 37; lectures translated by Miyake Hiizu, 178n27; and medical knowledge as science, 36; on medical students’ approach, 35; and OAG, 105; as own main enemy, 41–2; pedagogical style, 38; previous career, 23; as Prussian, 19; and quality of Japanese medical students, 16, 31; and selection of faculty and students, 37 Hofmann, Franz, 129 Holleben, Theodor von, 43, 47 Holzendorf, Frau von, boarding house, 79 Hōsei-kai (law students’ club), 87 Hopper, Helen, 197n146 hygiene: and modernity, 12–13; Mori studying, 94; social, 71–2. See also military hygiene Hyrtl, Josef, 34, 35 Iijima Wataru, 154 Ikeda Kensai, 34, 69, 75, 76, 191n60 Imai Genshirō, 190n45 imperial condescension, 101, 113, 122. See also colonialism

Index 239 Imperial Health Office (Reichsgesundheitsamt), 133 Imperial University Medical College, 170n1 infectious diseases. See diseases Inoko Kichindo, 74 Inoue Kaoru, 117, 158 Inoue Kowashi, 6 Inoue Tetsujirō, 83 Institute for Infectious Diseases (Institut für Infektionskrankheiten; Berlin), 68, 134 Institute for Infectious Diseases (of Kitasato), 125, 139, 154–5 Institute of Medical Science (University of Tokyo), 47–8 Institute of Medicine (Igakusho), 20 International Congress for Anthropology and Anatomy, 118 International Tuberculosis Congress, 147 Irisawa Tatsukichi, 40, 155 Ishibashi Chōei, 150 Ishiguro Tadanori, 20–1, 34, 38, 65, 142, 144 Ishii Shirō, 156 Ishizuki Minoru, 58–9, 60 Itō Hirobumi, 85f, 117, 152, 158 Itsuyūkai, 145–6 Iwakura Mission, 72 Iwasa Jun, 20, 22, 28 Iwata Maskazu, Ōkubo Toshimichi – the Bismarck of Japan, 164n10 Iwaya Sazanami, 86 Jackson, Terrence, 57 Jannetta, Ann, 29 Japan: arts and crafts exhibitions in Europe, 201n4; emperor, 111–12,

124; influence of medicalization of society on, 151; internal colonization within, 119; and Korea, 117, 122; Müller and “old”/traditional, 122; Naumann on, 95–101 Japanese language: Baelz and, 112; Emma Schultze and, 111; Müller and, 109, 110–11, 112 Japanese Medical Journal, 150 Japanese people: anthropology and, 104; Baelz’s studies of, 112–13; Emma Schultze and, 111; German perceptions of, 92–6, 102–3; German physicians’ selfdifferentiation from, 103; influence of Chinese civilization on, 97; Naumann on, 95–101; as race, 119, 153 Japanese physician instructors: German physician instructors vs., 43–4, 47, 48, 52, 150; Ōsawa Kenji as first, 43–4 Japanese physicians: bacteriology and tensions among, 147–8; and Dōjinkai (Association of Universal Benevolence), 155–6; Dutch doctors and, 26–7; German-educated in Korea, 151–2; German-educated in Taiwan, 151; “Germanism” of, 66–7; in Germany, 4–5; government and, 155–6; influence of German-educated in Japan, 151; lack of homogeneity among German-educated, 138; and medical atrocities, 156; Müller and Hoffmann’s reforms and, 42–3; quality/standards of, 17; and race, 153; and Second World War, 156; shift in perception of profession, 44; tensions

240 Index and divisions among, 126–7; Tokyo Medical Association/Meiji Medical Association vs. Greater Japan Medical Association division among, 127; transformation of, 17–18; translation of Western medical texts into Japanese, 27; Western anatomical knowledge and, 28–9 Japanische Medizinische Wochenschrift, 150 Japan-Korea Protectorate Treaty, 117 Johnston, William, 124, 127, 147 Kaempfer, Engelbert, 26 Kagoshima hospital and medical school, 173n26 Kaisei-Gakkō, 21, 60, 95 Kaiseijo (later Daigaku-Nankō), 33 Kaitai Shinsho (Tafel Anatomia), 27, 28 Kanda Izumibashi-dori (Tokyo), 31 Kashioka Tomihide, 60, 66 Katayama Kuniyoshi, 155 Katō Hiroyuki, 133 Katsura Tarō, 6, 76–7, 117 Keijō Imperial University (Seoul), medical faculty, 152 Keijō Medical College (Keijō Igaku Senmon Gakkō; Seoul), 119, 152 Keio University, medical faculty, 135, 155 Kitasato Shibasaburō: at 10th International Medical Congress in Berlin, 73f; anecdote about academic prowess as student in Germany, 55; Aoyama and, 137–8; Aoyama and Mori compared to, 139; and bacteriology, 139–40, 154; and beriberi, 132–3, 138; and bubonic plague bacillus, 135–6;

and Dōjinkai, 155; and Dōmei-kai, 80; and German physicians, 128; at German research institute, 62; Gotō and, 65; and Greater Japan Medical Association, 127; Institute for Infectious Diseases, 134–5, 139, 154–5; job offers on return from Germany, 134; and Keio University medical faculty, 135, 155; Koch and, 72, 132, 139, 140; and Koch’s visit to Japan, 124, 125, 125f, 126; at Lagerström’s boarding house, 77; and medical faculty of Keio University, 135, 155; Ogata and, 129, 131, 132–3, 136–8; and Schultze, 183n71; and Shiga, 155; studying bacteriology, 76; as symbol of Japan’s modern medical science, 127; and Takahashi, 67; and tetanus bacillus, 72, 128, 136; Tokyo faction vs., 134, 154–5; and Tokyo Imperial University, 134; Yersin and, 135, 136 Koch, Adolph, 123 Koch, Hedwig, 124, 147 Koch, Henry, 123 Koch, Robert: and Aoyama, 139, 140; and bacteriology, 71, 147; and beriberi, 140; and cellular pathology, 127–8; charlatans claiming to have studied under, 5; and cholera, 128, 129, 130; and comma bacillus, 130; and contagionism, 128, 129; germ theory of disease, 71; Imperial Health Office (Reichsgesundheitsamt) and, 133; and Institute for Infectious Diseases (Institut für Infektionskrankheiten), 134; and International Tuberculosis Congress, 147; in Japan, 123,

Index 241 124–6, 138–9, 147; Japanese medical students in Germany studying under, 67; and Kitasato, 72, 125, 126, 132, 139, 140; and Mori, 70–1, 139, 140; Ogata and, 130, 138; Pettenkofer and, 128–9, 133; and tetanus bacillus, 72; and tubercle bacillus, 127–8, 147; in U.S., 123 Koganei Yoshikiyo, 52, 80, 118–19 Konoe Atsumaru, Prince, 158 Korea: annexation by Japan, 115–16, 122; German-educated Japanese physicians in, 151–2; Japan-Korea Protectorate Treaty and, 117; Shiga in, 154 Koreans: Baelz and, 114–15, 117; Kubo’s measurements of, 119–21 Kowner, Rotem, 117 Kubo Takeshi, 119–21 Kühl, Stefan, Nazi Connection, 13 Kure Shūzō, 76 Kyoto Imperial University, 127 Lagerström, Marie von, 67, 76–9, 80–1, 86 LaMarre, Thomas, 101 Lange, Rudolf, 179n37 Langenbeck, Bernhard von, 67 Laver, Michael S., 25–6 law students (Japanese) in Germany, 61 Lehrbuch der speciellen Pathologie und Therapie mit besonderer Rücksicht auf Physiologie und pathologische Anatomie (Niemeyer), 31 Lernfreiheit (academic freedom), 63, 69–71 Liu Shiyung, 151; “Ripples of Rivalry,” 135 Lo, Ming-Cheng M., 156

Loefler, Friedrich August, 130, 132 Lowson, James A., 135–6 Ludwig-Maximilians University (Munich), 64–5 Luyendijk-Elshout, A.M., 27 Macartney, Lord, 111–12 Maeno Ryōtarō, 28 Maier, Charles S., 9 Manabe Kaichirō, 56 Manchuria, human experimentation in, 7, 13, 156 Marchand, Suzanne, 116–17 Martin, Bernd, 7, 156 Martin, Eduard, 67, 68, 75 Matsuda Makoto, 146 Matsumoto Jun (Matsumoto Ryōjun): and Army Medical Corps, 142; and Meedervoort, 29 Matsumura Jinzō: academic career, 192n68; on being watched by Germans, 92–3; and German architecture, 91; and German language, 74, 192n68, 196–7n136; on German students, 73; on Germans’ geographical knowledge, 93; homesickness of, 195n122; letters on German conditions, 198n2 McLeod, N., 115 measurements, human: Baelz and, 112–13, 114–15; by Kubo, 119–21 medical education: clinical/bedside teaching vs. laboratory research, 142–3; laboratory teaching vs. bedside clinical training, 71; science vs. practicality in, 51; as showing vs. reading, 35–6 medical education (Japan): Britishstyle in, 142–3; dissections in, 46;

242 Index German language in, 45; lack of instructional equipment, 32–3; social classes and, 32; textbooks, 31, 32, 34–5 Medical School and Hospital (Igakkō-ken-byōin), 20 medical schools (Japanese): foreign physicians as teachers, 20–3; German medicine to be introduced in, 20–1; of Meedervoort, 29; need for, 20; private, 62; regional public, 182–3n70 medical science (German): and educational methodology, 71; influence over Japanese, 127, 151; Japanese medical science vs., 36, 40, 48, 51–2, 53, 153–4; and medicalization of German society, 71–2; as propagandistic influence in Japan, 48; push and pull factors regarding Japanese choice of, 25; and scientific empiricism vs. bacteriology, 71 medical science (Japanese): Baelz and Scriba as fathers of modern medical science, 48; Chinese influence on, 36, 42; German influence over, 127, 151; German medical science vs., 36, 40, 48, 51–2, 53, 153–4; research tradition in, 154 medical science, research vs. clinical practice in, 153–4 medical students (German): Japanese students’ opinions of, 72–3; U.S. students’ opinions of, 73 medical students (Japanese): academic standards, 16–17, 31, 32; and acquisition of knowledge, 34, 35, 38; and anatomy, 28–9; Baelz

and, 49f, 51; commuter, 44–5; Europeanization of, 40–2; foreignlanguage reading comprehension, 34–5; and German language, 36; Müller and, 37–8, 47; numbers of enrollments, 44; regular vs. commuter, 45; Schultze on, 47; scientific knowledge, 38–9; selection of, 37, 39; social classes and, 32; and textbooks, 34–5; at Tokyo Medical School, 41f medical students (Japanese) in Germany, 5–6; academic quality of, 55, 56–7; accommodation, 69, 72, 76–9, 80–1; for additional education/practice vs. pursuit of degree, 63–4; age of, 69; antiforeign sentiments in Germany and, 150; auditing courses, 61, 67; average age, 63–4; at Berlin University, 61–5, 67–9, 70, 75; and changes to medical science, 72; cost of stay, 68–9; and cultural venues in Germany, 91; deaths of, 74; doctorate degrees, 64–6; duration of stay, 63, 65–6, 68–71, 80, 87; and Dutch Learning, 75; families in Japan, 69; fields of medicine studied, 75–6; first generation of, 75; Gartenlaube on, 90; gaze of Germans and, 90, 92, 101; and German cities, 90–1; and German culture, 101; and German language, 74, 76, 79–80; German physician instructors in Japan and second generation of, 75–6; on German students, 72–3; and Germans’ lack of geographical knowledge, 93; as graduates of Tokyo University medical faculty,

Index 243 64–5; historians’ accounts of contributions to medical science, 55–6; Japanese government and, 155–6; length of journey between Japan and Germany, 62–3; as modernizers, 55; in Munich, 64–6; numbers of, 55, 61–2, 151; obligation to advance medical practices in Japan, 54–5; and Ogata’s success, 131; and orientalism, 101; perception of Japanese as inferior to Europeans, 93–4; and peregrinatio academica, 69–71; physical characteristics described, 90; prosopographical aspects, 56–7, 63; and prostitution, 91–2; retention of national pride, 100–1; second generation, 75–6, 139; social and cultural networks, 57; socialization by, 80–6, 87; and socialized intellect, 57, 83, 87; and study abroad program, 58; teachers of, 72; third generation, 76, 140–1; underachievement of, 94; unsuccessful academic careers, 74; U.S. students compared to, 62–3; varied situations among, 87; women, 67; and Yamatokwai, 81–3 medical students (U.S.) in Germany: on German students, 73; numbers of, 62–3 Medizin und Kolonialimperialismus (Eckart), 11–12 Meedervoort, Pompe van, 29 Meiji Japan: and Baelz’s theory of racial composition, 122; consolidation under emperor, 22; study abroad program, 58–61, 79 Meiji Medical Association (Meiji Ikai), 127

miasmatism, 129 Michaelis, Georg, 106–7 military hygiene: army physicians and, 17; colonialism and, 12; Mori and, 5 military physicians (Japanese), 17 military physicians (German), as teachers in Japan, 22–3, 43, 49 Mississippi (U.S. battleship), 19–20 Miura Kinnosuke, 70 Miyajima Mikinosuke, 55, 125 Miyake Hiizu, 178n27 Miyake Shū, 35 Miyamoto Hajime, 140–1 modernity/modernization: Baelz on adoption of European, 114; employment of foreign teachers/specialists and, 57–8; German physician instructors and, 5, 58; GermanJapanese relations and, 6–7, 151; hygienic, 12–13; Japanese medical students in Germany and, 55; Kitasato and, 127; medical atrocities and, 13; Mori and, 200n34; study abroad program and, 58; temporality of, 8–9; translation of Western medical books and, 27; Western concept of anatomy and, 27–9 Mokuyōkai (medical students’ association), 87 Mori Ōgai (Mori Rintarō as writer): on Berlin, 88, 90; Dancing Girl, The, 88, 90, 185n3; Daydreams, 154; and modernization, 200n34; on Ogata and Kitasato, 129; as pen name, 5; Vita Sexualis, 91–2, 197n142; Wild Goose, The, 187n16; and Yamatokwai, 197n141 Mori Rintarō (as physician), 89f; Aoki’s advice to, 54; Aoyama

244 Index and Kitasato compared to, 139; and Army Medical Corps, 142; and bacteriology, 139–40; and beriberi, 140, 146; and Buddhism, 96; cost as student in Germany, 69; at Dresden Geographical Society meeting, 94–6; and gazes of Berliners, 93; and German Language, 197n146; at German research institute, 62; on German students, 73; Hashimoto’s advice to, 54; on Kitasato-Ogata dispure, 133; and Koch, 70–1, 139, 140; length of journey to Germany, 63; at meeting of Geographical Society in Dresden, 94–6; and military hygiene research, 5, 76, 94; and Naumann, 95–101, 113, 197–8n147; on Ogata and Kitasato, 129; peregrinatio academica, 70–1; as play-goer, 91; and ranks of Japanese licensed doctors, 145; Roth and, 94–6; socialization with Japanese expatriates in Berlin, 80; as student in Germany, 54–5; as surgeon general of army, 139; and Takaki, 145–6; and Yamatokwai, 82, 197n141 Morikawa Jun, 64 Morse, Edward Sylvester, 183n73 Müller, Leopold: achievements/legacy in Japan, 42–3; appointment of, 23–5; Baelz compared to, 112, 113; and Chinese medicine, 36, 42; as colonizer, 41–2; and conditions at medical school, 32–3; and curriculum, 39, 40, 46; departure from Japan, 42; and ethnographic gaze, 113; and faculty at medical school at Tōdō Yashiki, 33;

feelings of superiority to Japanese, 111–12; as first German teacher in Tokyo, 18; and German expatriates, 109; on German language in Japan, 24, 35; influence/legacy of, 52–3; and Japanese language, 109, 110–11, 112; on Japanese music, 111; lectures to Japanese medical students, 37; and medical knowledge as science, 36; on medical science in Japan, 51; meeting with Japanese emperor, 111–12; and OAG, 105, 109; and “old”/traditional Japan, 109, 111, 122; as own main enemy, 41–2; pedagogical style, 38; photo, 110f; previous career, 23; and private practice, 50–1; as Prussian, 19; and quality of Japanese medical students, 16–17, 31, 32, 47; schedule in Japan, 108–9; security surveillance of, 109; and selection of faculty and students, 37; and selection of students, 39; on students’ approach to knowledge, 34; and students at Tokyo Medical School, 41f; and textbooks, 34, 35; on Verbeck, 173n24; writings and lecture notes, 109 Mumm von Schwarzenstein, Alfons, 3 Munich: Anthropological Society, 97; Japanese medical students in, 64–6 music, 111 Nagai Nagayoshi, 75, 77, 79, 91, 92, 189n42, 191n60 Nagamatsu Atsusuke, 192n68 Nagaoka Moriyoshi, 156

Index 245 Nagasaki, importance during Tokugawa shogunate, 26 Nagata Genpei, 66 Nagayo Sensai, 55, 65, 72, 134 Nagura Kōsaku, 80 Nähe fremder Kulturen, Die (Schlieper), 164n10 Nakamura, Ellen Gardner, 175n46 Nankō. See Daigaku-Nankō Nanta, Arnaud, 121 Natsume Sōseki, 124 Naumann, Edmund, 95–101, 113, 197–8n147 navy (Japanese): and beriberi, 142–4, 147; Hospital School, 142; Medical Bureau, 143; Medical Corps, 142–3 Nazi Connection (Kühl), 13 Niemeyer, Felix von, Lehrbuch der speciellen Pathologie und Therapie mit besonderer Rücksicht auf Physiologie und pathologische Anatomie, 31 Nihon iji shinpō, and German vs. English-language titles, 150 Nippon Club, 85–6 Nogi Maresuke, 80 Noll, Heike, 64, 189n43 Nye, Joseph S., 12 OAG. See German Society for the Natural History and Ethnology of East Asia (Deutsche Gesellschaft für Natur- und Voelkerkunde Ostasiens (OAG)) Oberländer, Christian, 21, 138 Ogata Masanori: and beriberi, 131, 132–3, 138, 144–5; and cholera, 131; on faculty of Tokyo Medical School, 52; hubris of, 144–5; Kitasato and, 129, 131,

132–3, 136–8; and Koch, 130, 138; Pettenkofer and, 52, 128, 129–31, 133, 138, 144; and plague bacillus, 136–7; scientific publications, 130; studying bacteriology, 76; on Takaki, 144–5; at Tokyo Imperial University, 131 Ogawa Mariko, 126 Okada Kunitarō, 93, 137 Okada Waichirō, 155 Olshausen, R.M., 67 Ōkubo Toshimichi - the Bismarck of Japan (Iwata), 164n10 Ōkuma Shigenobu, 21–2, 156 Ōsawa Kenji, 43–4, 52, 75, 131, 144, 188n39 orientalism, 98, 100, 101, 103, 116–17, 122 Ost-Asien, 157 Pasteur, Louis, 71, 128 Pekelharing, Cornelis, 132 peregrinatio academica, 63, 69–71 Perry, Matthew, 19, 28 Pettenkofer, Max von: and cholera, 128–9; as contagionist, 128–9; and Gotō, 65; isolation of, 133–4; and Kitasato, 133; Koch and, 128–9, 133; and miasmatism, 129; Mori and, 98; and Ogata, 52, 128, 129– 33, 138, 144–5; suicide of, 134 Pflüger, Eduard Friedrich Wilhelm, 146 “Physical Characteristics of the Japanese, The” (Körperlichen Eigenschaften der Japaner; Baelz), 118 power relations, reciprocity vs., 9–10 prosopography, 10–11; of Japanese medical students in Germany, 56–7, 63

246 Index Prussia: extension of influence in Japan, 22–4; and Japanese constitution, 19; war with France, 19, 23, 25 psychiatry, 76 race: anthropology and, 104, 153; Baelz and, 112–13, 114–16, 117, 119, 122; German vs. Japanese physicians and, 153; Japanese people as, 112–13, 114–16, 119, 153; and Kubo’s comparison of Koreans and Japanese, 121; popularity of idea, 153; reductionism, 121; and social classes, 115 rangaku (Dutch Learning). See Dutch Learning (rangaku) Rauck, Michael, 64, 189n43 reciprocity, power relations vs., 9–10 Rein, Johannes Justus, 24 research: clinical practice vs., 153–4; and experimentation, 153–4; and medical atrocities, 13; medicine as, vs. as healing art, 155; Tokyo vs. Kitasato factions and, 155; as true science vs. method to cure disease, 154 Rikōkai (sciences students’ association), 87 “Ripples of Rivalry” (Liu), 135 Robert Koch Institute for Infectious Diseases, 61 Rockefeller Foundation, 156 Roessler, Karl Friedrich Hermann, 6 Rogaski, Ruth, 12, 147 Rosenkranz, Rein and Karl, 99 Roth, Wilhelm August, 94–5, 98 Russo-Japanese War (1904–5), 17, 147, 153 Ryūjō (training ship), 143–4

Sagara Chian, 20, 22, 28 Sagara Motosada, 74 Saigō Takamori, 173n26 Saionji Kinmochi, Prince, 157–8 sakoku, 25–6 Sasaki Tōyō, 67 Satō Susumu: academic prowess as student in Germany, 55–6; at Berlin University, 68, 74; Brandt and, 196n130; and dissection, 68; doctorate degree, 191n60; and Dōjinkai, 155; and German language, 74, 79–80, 93; at Lagerström’s boarding house, 77– 9; length of journey to Germany, 62; and Taehan Hospital, 152 Satsuma, 26 Saunier, Pierre-Yves, 168n25 Schendel, Leopold, 179n37 Scheube, Heinrich Botho, 105, 141 Schlieper, Andreas, Nähe fremder Kulturen, Die, 164n10 Schmid, Andre, 117 Schmidt, Emil, “Anthropologischen Methoden,” 120 Schultze, Emil August Wilhelm, 43, 44, 45–7, 49f, 50, 102 Schultze, Emma, 102, 111 Schwalbe, Gustav, 118 Schweigger, Karl Ernst, 72 science: in Japanese medicine, 35; medical knowledge as, 36; medical students’ lack of knowledge of, 38–9; and preparatory school, 39 Scriba, Julius Karl: bust of, 3–4, 4f; death of, 149; as father of modern medical science in Japan, 48; and medical education in Japan, 48; and OAG, 105; as one of two

Index 247 remaining German faculty, 52; and private practice, 51; sculpture of, 47–8; at St Luke’s Hospital, Tokyo, 51 Seaman, Louis Livingstone, 17 Second World War, co-optation of doctors during, 156 Seminar for Oriental Languages (das Seminar für Orientalische Sprachen), 83 Shambergen, Caspar, 26 Shiba Ryōkai, 38 Shibata Shōkei, 187n16 Shibayama Gorōsaku, 140–1 Shiga Kiyoshi: as bacteriologist, 152; and Dōjinkai, 155; and dysentery bacillus, 152; and Kitasato faction, 154–5; in Korea, 154 Shirō Kira, Meijiki ni okeru doitsu igaka no juyō to fukyū, 165n16 Siebold, Philipp Franz von, 18, 26–7 Sino-Japanese War (1894–5): beriberi and, 140, 147; cholera and, 140; and German-Japanese relations, 158 Sino-Japanese War (1937), Dōjinkai and, 156 smallpox vaccination, 29 social clubs: in Germany, 80; Mokuyōkai, 87; Nippon Club, 85–6; at Tokyo University, 80; Wa-doku-kai, 81, 83–4, 86; Yamatokwai, 81–3, 86 socialization, of Japanese medical students, 80–6, 87 socialized intellects: Dutch Learning and, 57; Japanese medical students in Germany and, 57, 83, 87, 156–7 Soejima Taneomi, 21–2

soft power, 12, 158–9 Sonderweg thesis, 7, 13, 18 Spanish-American War (1898), 17 St Luke’s Hospital (Tsukiji, Tokyo), 51 St Thomas’s Hospital Medical School, 143 Steinmetz, George, 122; Devil’s Handwriting: Precoloniality and the German Colonial State, 12 Stone, Lawrence, 9 students (Japanese) in Germany, First World War and, 149 students (Japanese) in study abroad program: academic quality, 59, 60; private, 60; supervision of, 59–60 study abroad program, 58–61; Meiji government and, 58–61, 79; Tokugawa shogunate and, 58, 59 Sugakawa Medical School, 65 Sugita Genpaku, 28 Suzuki Hisahi, 118 Taehan Hospital (Taehan Ŭiwŏn; Seoul), 152 Tafel Anatomia, 27–8 Taiwan: German-educated Japanese physicians in, 151; Gotō and, 4–5, 134; as medical laboratory, 151 Takahashi Mizuko, 61, 67, 190n47 Takaki Kanehiro, 143–6 Tamai Kisak, 63, 157 Taniguchi Ken, 80 Ten Rhinje, Willem, 26 tetanus: anti-toxic serum, 72; bacillus, 72, 128, 136 Thunberg, Carl Peter, 26 Tōdō Yashiki, 33 Tokugawa shogunate: foreign interaction, 25–6; and Nagasaki, 26;

248 Index seclusion policy, 26; and study abroad program, 58, 59 Tokyo, Berlin compared to, 90–1 Tokyo Anthropological Association, 117–18 Tokyo “faction,” 134, 135 Tokyo Imperial University, Medical Faculty (earlier Tokyo Medical School): about, 3; Aoyama and, 3, 139; and beriberi, 144, 146; history of, 170n1; Ikeda as first dean, 34; Institute for Infectious Diseases, 135, 139, 155; Kitasato and, 134; and Kitasato faction, 154–5; and Koch’s visit to Japan, 126; Ogata and, 131 Tokyo Medical Association (Tokyo Ikai), 127 Tokyo Medical Congress (1902), 5, 51 Tokyo Medical School (later Tokyo Imperial University, Medical Faculty): and army, 142; commuter program at, 44–5; curriculum, 39, 40, 45–6; dominance of, 127; Europeanization of, 40–2; faculty, 40, 46; German vs. Japanese physician instructors at, 43–4; graduates, 62; history of, 170n1; Müller and, 24; Müller and Hoffmann at, 36, 37; numbers of students enrolled, 44; preparatory school for, 36, 39; and regional public medical schools, 183n70; research vs. clinical practice in, 153; salaries at, 44; Schultze at, 45–7; student dress regulations, 40, 41–2; students, 41f; tuition, 39 Tokyo University: Domei-kai, 80; Faculty of Medicine, 170n1;

“Germanism” in, 66; history of, 170n1 translations, by interpreters at Tokyo Medical School, 38 transnationalism, history of nation states vs., 8–9 Treaty of Friendship, Commerce and Navigation, 22 Tripartite Pact, 6 Triple Intervention, 7, 158 Tsuboi Shōgorō, 117–18 Tsukuba (training ship), 144 Tsushima, 26 Tsuzuki Jinnosuke, 140–1 tubercle bacillus, 127–8, 147 tuberculin, 124, 128 tuberculosis, 124 Ume Kinnojō, 72 United States: medical science, 20; students in Germany, 62–3, 73; study abroad program and, 60 University East Building/College (Daigaku-Tōkō), 16, 20, 61, 169–70n1 Urata Tada, 61, 190n47 Verbeck, Guido F., 21–2 Vianden, Hermann Heinrich, 18; Einführung der deutschen Medizin in der Meiji-Zeit, 165n16, 171n10 Virchow, Hans, 70, 118 Virchow, Rudolf: and anthropology, 103; and Berlin Anthropological Society, 106; and cellular pathology, 71, 127–8; charlatans claiming to have studied under, 5; Ikeda studying with, 75; Japanese medical students studying under, 67; Koganei and, 118

Index 249 Vita Sexualis (Mori), 91–2, 197n142 Voigt, Wilhelm, 66 Voit, Carl von, 146 Wa-doku-kai (Deutsch-Japanische Gesellschaft), 81, 83–4, 86 Waldeyer-Hartz, Wilhelm von, 67, 118, 119 Wernich, Agathon, 105, 140 Wernich, Albrecht, 40, 43, 44, 51, 177n4 Western Medical Pioneers in Feudal Japan (Bowers), 175n47 Wild Goose, The (Mori), 187n16 Wilhelm II, Kaiser, 158 Willis, William, 21, 173n26 women: at Berlin University, 190n47; Buddhism and, 96; medical students, 67; OAG and, 106, 107

Yamagata Aritomo, 6, 142 Yamashita Seizō, 141 Yamatokwai, 81–3, 86, 91 Yamawaki Tōyō, 36 Yamazaki Mitsuo, 166n17 Yanagita Yao, 66 Yasuba Yasukazu, 65 Yasuda Gihei, 66 Yersin, Alexandre, 135, 136, 137, 138 Yoshimasu Tōdō, 36 Yukiko Hayase, 65 Yukura Tōkō, 80 Zimmerman, Andrew, 104