“I’ve always wanted to set up a museum, but I was always so busy with work. In the end, this display room is all I was ever able to put together.”
“It’s already a museum,” said Kanai.
Kozaburo gave a little laugh.
“Well, this is, anyway.”
He opened one of the glass cases and took out a small figurine, about fifty centimetres tall, of a boy sitting in a chair. The chair had a little desk attached to it, and the boy had a pen in his right hand; his left rested on the desk. He had a sweet expression on his face, and this figurine lacked the visible wear and tear of the other dolls.
“He’s so cute!” said Kumi.
“It’s a clockwork doll, or automaton, known as The Writer. It was made in the late eighteenth century. I heard about it and went to great pains to get hold of it.”
The assembled guests made various admiring sounds.
“Did it get its name because it can actually write words?” asked Kumi, sounding a little scared.
“Of course. I think it can still manage to write its own name. Would you like to see?”
Before Kumi had a chance to respond, Kozaburo tore off a sheet from a memo pad and slipped it under the doll’s left hand. Winding the spring in the doll’s back, he gave its right hand a gentle nudge. The doll’s right hand began to make awkward, jerky movements which started to leave marks on the memo paper. There was a small clacking sound that must have been the grinding of the cogs inside.
Kumi was relieved to find the movements delightful rather than menacing. Even the occasional change in pressure of the doll’s left hand on the paper was charmingly realistic.
“That’s adorable! But at the same time a little bit scary.”
Truth be told, everyone present was feeling slightly relieved. No one had been sure what to expect.
The doll was only able to write a tiny bit. It came to an abrupt halt with both hands just above the desk. Kozaburo removed the paper and showed it to Kumi.
“Well, it’s over two hundred years old, so it’s not surprising it’s not as good as it used to be. Can you make out the letters M, A, R, K? This boy’s name is Marko so he almost got his full name down.”
“Signing autographs, just like a celebrity!” said Kumi.
“Yeah, I’m sure there’ve been plenty of celebrities who couldn’t write more than their own name,” said Kozaburo with a grin. “Apparently he used to be able to write much more, but this is his whole repertoire now. I guess he must have forgotten his alphabet.”
“His eyesight’s probably failing with age, if he’s really two hundred years old.”
“That’s a good one,” said Kozaburo. “Maybe I’m the same way. But at least I’ve given him a ballpoint pen to use. The pen he used to have was much harder to write with.”
“How wonderful! If you don’t mind my asking, is it worth a lot of money?” said Hatsue.
“I don’t think you can put a price on it. It’s something that could easily belong in the British Museum. If you’re asking me how much I paid for it, I’m afraid I can’t answer that. I wouldn’t like to shock you with my total lack of common sense.”
“Ah!” said her husband.
“But if we’re talking money, this piece here was even more expensive. This is The Dulcimer Player.”
“Did it come with that desk?”
“It did. The mechanics are hidden inside.”
The Dulcimer Player was a noblewoman in a dress with a long skirt, seated in front of what looked like a miniature grand piano. Both were attached to the top of a beautiful mahogany desk. The doll itself wasn’t particularly large, probably no more than about thirty centimetres.
Kozaburo must have operated some sort of hidden device, because all of a sudden the noblewoman’s hands began to move and music filled the room.
“She’s not really playing, is she?” said Sasaki.
“No. That would be too complicated to design. I suppose you could think of this as a very elaborate music box. A music box with a doll attached. It’s the same principle.”
“But the music isn’t that tinkling sound you get with a music box,” Sasaki pointed out. “It’s much more rounded and mellow than that—there’re not only high notes but low ones too.”
“Yes, it sounds more like bells to me,” said Kumi.
“Probably because the box itself is so large. And unlike the little boy, Marko, she has quite a wide repertoire. About the number of tunes on one side of a long-playing record.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it’s a masterpiece from the French rococo period. And this one here is German-made from the fifteenth century. It’s called Clock with Nativity Scene.”
Kozaburo showed them an elaborate metal clock in the shape of a castle. On the top was the Tower of Babel, and the T-shaped pendulum hung from a spherical rendition of the cosmos with the baby Jesus at its centre.
“And this one is Goddess Hunting Deer. The deer, the dogs and the horse all move.
“This one is The Gardener. Unfortunately, he doesn’t sprinkle water from that watering can any more.
“And over here we have a tabletop water fountain made for a nobleman in the fourteenth century. This one doesn’t spout water any more either.
“In medieval Europe these kinds of magical playthings were popping up all over the place. These new marvellous mechanisms came about and changed people’s view of magic. It was fun to surprise people. For many long years that role was taken by witchcraft and sorcery. And then finally, these kind of automata were invented and took over the role. The worship of machinery, perhaps you could say. There was a trend for people to design machines that were copies of things found in nature. And so witchcraft and machinery for quite a while were synonymous. It was a transition period. Of course these were meant to be toys, something to play with, but that is only obvious when looked at from the standpoint of our modernday science.”
“You don’t have any Japanese artefacts,” Sasaki pointed out.
“That’s right. Nothing besides the Tengu masks.”
“What about Japanese karakuri dolls? Are they poorly made?”
“Not at all. There’s the famous Tea Server and all the dolls that were made up in Hida Takayama. The inventor Hiraga Gennai and especially Giemon, the pseudonym of Tanaka Hisashige, were responsible for making the most sophisticated automata. It’s just they’re impossible to get hold of. The reason is that in Japan they have very few metal parts. Long ago the cogs were made from wood, and the springs from whalebone, and after a hundred years they’d be worn out. Even if you could get hold of one, it’d be a replica, a copy. But even those replicas are almost impossible to get your hands on.”
“Are there any blueprints still in existence?”
“Yes, there are a few. Without the blueprints no one could have made those replicas. But they’re only drawings, really.
“On the whole, Japanese craftsmen didn’t tend to leave blueprints behind. They wanted to keep the art of making karakuri dolls their own secret. It wasn’t a problem of poor technique at all. I really question this aspect of Japanese people’s behaviour. For example, back in the Edo Era, there was apparently a rather splendid karakuri doll—a child playing the fife and drum. It could blow on a small flute and play the drum at the same time. Neither the original nor the blueprints have survived. So I’ve been complaining to the engineers of many countries: if you develop a new product or technology, please record the process in minute detail and leave it for future generations. It should be your legacy to the future.”