Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Akutagawa Ryūnosuke

The protagonist of this story was a man named Shinobu Hansaburō.
He was not by any means a remarkable man.
He worked for Mitsubishi in Beijing as a company employee around thirty years of age.
Hansaburō had graduated from Commerce University and come to Beijing two months thereafter.
His reputation among colleagues and superiors could not be called particularly favorable.
Yet neither could it be deemed particularly unfavorable.
This very mediocrity manifested itself plainly in Hansaburō's outward bearing.
To state matters sequentially: such too was the nature of Hansaburō's domestic circumstances.

Hansaburō had married a certain young lady two years earlier.
The young lady's name was Tsuneko.
This too, unfortunately, was not a love marriage.
It was a mediated marriage in which they had requested an elderly couple from among their relatives to act as go-betweens.
Tsuneko was not what one would call a beauty.
However, neither was she what one would call a hag.
She had plump, round cheeks that perpetually wore a smile.
Except for when she was bitten by bedbugs in the sleeper car on her way from Fengtian to Beijing, she always wore a smile.
Moreover, she no longer had to worry about being bitten by bedbugs again.
This was because two cans of Bat Brand pyrethrum were properly installed in the parlor of the company housing in ×× Hutong.

I said that Hansaburō’s domestic life was utterly ordinary.
Indeed, it was exactly as I had said.
He merely led a life no different from any other company employee in all of Beijing—doing such things as eating meals with Tsuneko, playing the phonograph, and going to see motion pictures.
However, their lives could not remain exempt from the dominion of fate.
Fate shattered this utterly ordinary domestic monotony with a single blow one midday afternoon.
Shinobu Hansaburō—Mitsubishi employee—had suddenly died of cerebral hemorrhage.

That afternoon, Hansaburō was once again diligently examining documents at his desk in the company office in Dongdan Pailou.
It seems that even the colleague seated across from him at the desk noticed nothing particularly unusual.
Having apparently finished a section of work, with a cigarette in his mouth, he suddenly collapsed face down and died as he tried to strike a match.
It was an utterly anticlimactic way to die.
However, society fortunately does not pass much judgment on how one dies.
Criticism is reserved solely for how one lives.
Hansaburō too, because of this, managed to avoid incurring any particular censure.
No—it was not a matter of censure.
Superiors and colleagues all expressed deep sympathy to Widow Tsuneko.

According to the diagnosis by Dr. Yamai, director of Tongren Hospital, Hansaburō’s cause of death was cerebral hemorrhage.
But Shinobu himself unfortunately did not believe it was cerebral hemorrhage.
In the first place, he didn't even believe he was dead.
He was simply surprised that he had come to an office he had never seen before—

The office window curtain was being blown slowly by the wind in the sunlight.
However, nothing could be seen outside the window.

At the large desk in the center of the office sat two Chinese men in white dagua jackets, facing each other as they examined ledgers.
One of them was probably around twenty years old.
The other had a slightly yellowed, long mustache.

Before long, the Chinese man in his early twenties addressed him without looking up as he ran his pen across the ledger.

“Aaar you Mistaaah Henry Baaarett aaant you?”

Hansaburō was startled.
But he replied in Beijing Mandarin as composedly as possible.
"I am Shinobu Hansaburō of the Mitsubishi Company of Japan," he answered.

"Oh, you're Japanese?"

The Chinese man who had finally looked up said this in equal surprise.
The elderly Chinese man had begun writing something in the ledger while staring blankly at Hansaburō.

“What should we do?
It’s a case of mistaken identity.”

“This is problematic.”
“This is truly problematic.”
“This has never occurred since the First Revolution.”

The elderly Chinese bureaucrat seemed angry, trembling a pen in his hand.

“Return it at once.”

“You are—yes, Mr. Shinobu.”
“Wait a moment, please.”

The young Chinese bureaucrat spread open a new, thick ledger and began muttering to himself.
But upon closing it, he addressed the elderly man with heightened astonishment.

“It’s impossible. Mr. Shinobu Hansaburō has been dead for three days.”
“Mr. Shinobu Hansaburō has been dead for three days.”

“He has been dead for three days?”

“Moreover, the legs are rotting.”
“Both legs are rotting from the thighs.”

Hansaburō was startled once again.
According to their conversation, first of all, he was dead.
Secondly, three days had already passed since his death.
Thirdly, his legs were rotting.
There was no way such absurdity could exist.
His legs were exactly as described—no sooner had he moved them than he let out an involuntary cry.
It was no wonder he had cried out.
His legs—clad in sharply creased white trousers and white shoes—were both slanting sideways in the wind blowing through the window!
When he saw this sight, he could scarcely believe his eyes.
But when he touched them with both hands, he found that both legs—from the thighs down—were indeed no different than grasping at air.
Hansaburō finally fell on his backside.
At the same time, his legs—or rather, his pants—sank limply to the floor like a deflated rubber balloon.

“Very well. Very well. We’ll take care of it for you.”

After saying this, the elderly Chinese bureaucrat spoke to the young subordinate as if his lingering resentment remained unappeased.

“This is your responsibility. Mark my words. This is your responsibility. You must promptly submit an official report. Now then. So where has Henry Barrett gone now?”

“According to our latest investigation, it appears he suddenly departed for Hankou.”

“Then let’s send a telegram to Hankou and have Henry Barrett’s legs delivered.”

“No, that won’t do. By the time legs arrive from Hankou, Mr. Shinobu’s torso will have rotted away.”

“This is problematic.”
“This is truly problematic.”

The elderly Chinese bureaucrat sighed.
Somehow even his mustache appeared to sag more limply.

"This is your responsibility."
"You must submit an official report immediately."
"I presume no passengers remain?"

"Yes, they departed about an hour ago."
"Though there happens to be one horse available."

“Whose horse is it?”

“It’s from the horse market outside Deshengmen Gate.”
“The animal has only just died.”

“Then let’s attach those horse legs.”
“Better horse legs than none at all.”
“Bring just the legs here, please.”

The young Chinese bureaucrat in his early twenties left the front of the large desk and swiftly disappeared somewhere.
Hansaburō was startled for the third time.
From what they were just saying, it seems they are going to attach horse legs to me.
To end up with horse legs would be disastrous.

He pleaded with the elderly Chinese bureaucrat while still sitting on his backside.

“Please, have mercy—spare me the horse legs.
I despise horses with every fiber of my being.
I implore you—for all eternity—grant me human legs.
Even legs from that Henry fellow would suffice.
So long as they’re human legs, I’ll endure any amount of hairiness.”

The elderly Chinese bureaucrat looked down at Hansaburō with a pitying expression, nodding his head repeatedly.

"If there were any, we would attach them for you."
"However, there are no human legs—well, resign yourself to this misfortune."
"But horse legs are sturdy, you know."
"If you replace the horseshoes occasionally, you'll manage any mountain path with ease......"

Then, with two horse legs already dangling from him, the young subordinate swiftly entered again from somewhere.
It was exactly like a hotel attendant bringing long boots.
Hansaburō tried to escape.
However, in his sorrow of lacking both legs, he could not easily rise.
Before long, the subordinate came to his side and began removing the white shoes and socks.

“That won’t do. Just spare me the horse legs, I beg you. First of all, there’s no procedure for repairing my legs without my approval.……”

While Hansaburō was shouting like this, the subordinate inserted one horse leg into the right hole of the trousers. The horse leg bit into his right thigh as though it had teeth. Then he inserted another leg into the left hole. This one also clamped down with a bite.

“There, that should do.”

The young Chinese bureaucrat in his early twenties rubbed his long-nailed hands together with a satisfied smile. Hansaburō blankly gazed at his legs. There, protruding from the ends of the white trousers, were two thick chestnut horse legs, their hooves already neatly aligned.—

Hansaburō remembered up to this point.
At least beyond that point, his memories did not remain as clear as they did up to here.
He also vaguely remembered something like having quarreled with two Chinese men.
He also vaguely remembered tumbling down a steep ladder-like staircase.
But he could not be certain of either.
In any case, after wandering through phantoms of unknowable nature, when he finally regained his senses, he found himself lying in a coffin placed within the company housing at XX Hutong.
Moreover, right before the coffin, a single young missionary of the Honganji sect was delivering a deathbed prayer or something.

Of course, Hansaburō's resurrection became the talk of the town.
The Shunten Times published a large photograph of him for this purpose and ran a three-column spread.
According to this article, Tsuneko—dressed in mourning clothes—was said to have smiled even more brightly than usual.
Some superiors and colleagues reportedly used what had now become superfluous condolence money to host a resurrection celebration.
Dr.Yamai's credibility alone must have teetered on the brink.
Yet Dr.Yamai calmly blew cigar smoke rings and deftly restored his standing.
He passionately expounded on natural mysteries transcending medical science.
In other words, he preserved his own reputation by discarding medicine's credibility.

However, even when Hansaburō himself attended the resurrection celebration, he showed not the slightest trace of cheerfulness.
That he showed none was, of course, no surprise.
His legs had transformed into horse legs without his knowledge ever since his resurrection.
They had become chestnut horse legs with hooves where toes should be.
Each time he gazed at these legs, he felt an indescribable wretchedness.
Were these legs ever discovered, the company would surely dismiss Hansaburō.
His colleagues would certainly decline any further association.
Tsuneko too—oh, “Frailty, thy name is woman!”
Tsuneko too would likely follow this pattern—she could not keep as her husband a man who had become saddled with horse legs.
Every time Hansaburō thought this, he resolved that above all else he must conceal his legs.
He had discarded traditional Japanese clothing for this very reason.
He had taken to wearing long boots for this very reason.
He had fortified the bathroom windows and door locks for this very reason.
Yet despite all this, he remained gripped by constant unease.
And indeed, it was only natural for him to feel this way—unavoidable even.
The reason being:—

The first thing Hansaburō was cautious of was avoiding colleagues' suspicions.
This might have been relatively easier among his struggles.
However, according to his diary, it appears he still had to constantly battle some degree of danger.

"July Xth: That young Chinese bureaucrat bastard has attached some unconscionable legs.
My legs could very well be called a nest of fleas.
While attending to my duties today as well, I endured itching so intense it drove me mad.
In any case, for the time being, I must devote all my efforts to devising ways to exterminate the fleas.……

"August Xth: Today I went to Mane-ejaa’s place to discuss business matters.
Then Mane-ejaa kept sniffling incessantly even while talking.
It seems the stench of my legs is leaking out beyond the boots.……

"September Xth: Controlling the horse legs freely is indeed more difficult than horsemanship."
Today, before lunch break, I was ordered to handle an urgent errand, so I hurried down the staircase at a trot.
Anyone in such moments would think of nothing but the task at hand.
I too must have forgotten about the horse legs without realizing it because of that.
In the blink of an eye, my legs had smashed through the seventh step of the staircase.……

October Xth: I was gradually beginning to learn how to freely control the horse legs.
Having finally mastered this, I realized it ultimately came down to properly adjusting the hip suspension.
But today, I failed.
However, today’s failure was not entirely my fault.
This morning around nine o'clock, I took a rickshaw to the company.
Then the rickshaw driver insisted on twenty sen for the fare instead of twelve.
What's more, he grabbed me and tried to prevent me from entering the company gate.
I was so enraged that I suddenly kicked the rickshaw driver.
The rickshaw driver went flying through the air like a football.
Of course I regretted it.
At the same time, I also couldn’t help but burst out laughing.
"In any case, when moving my legs, I had to be even more careful.……"

However, avoiding Tsuneko’s suspicions appears to have been far more difficult than deceiving his colleagues.
Hansaburō constantly lamented this difficulty in his diary.

July Xth: My greatest enemy was Tsuneko.
Under the pretext of cultural life necessities, I had ultimately converted even the last remaining Japanese-style room into a Western-style one.
This way I could keep my shoes on even before Tsuneko's eyes.
Tsuneko appeared deeply resentful about losing the tatami.
But even wearing tabi boots, making these legs walk through Japanese-style rooms remained utterly impossible for me.……

September Xth: Today I sold the double bed to a furniture dealer.
This bed had been bought at an American's auction.
Walking back from that auction through the concession, I passed under rows of trees.
The rows of sophora trees were heavy with blossoms.
The canal's shimmering water looked beautiful too.
But—this was no time for nostalgic contemplation.
Last night I nearly kicked Tsuneko in the ribs.……

November Xth: Today I took the laundry to the laundry shop myself.
Though it wasn't our regular laundry service.
It was the one by Dong'an Market.
This alone I must keep doing going forward.
Because horse hair was always clinging to the fundoshi, underpants, and socks.……

December Xth: The rate at which socks tear is extraordinary.
In truth, even just managing the sock expenses without Tsuneko noticing was no ordinary hardship.……

February Xth: Of course, I had never removed my socks or underpants, even when sleeping. On top of this, concealing the tips of my legs under the blanket to avoid Tsuneko’s notice was always a perilous undertaking. “You really are sensitive to the cold. Have you wrapped a fur around your waist as well?” she said. Perhaps the time had come for my horse legs to be exposed.……

Hansaburō had encountered numerous other dangers besides these.
To enumerate each and every one of them proved utterly beyond my endurance.
But of all the entries in Hansaburō’s diary, what shocked me most was the incident that follows.

"February Xth: Today during lunch break, I went to peek into the secondhand bookstore at Ryūfuku-ji Temple. In the sunny spot in front of the used bookstore stood a parked carriage. Not a Western-style one, mind you—a Chinese carriage with a blue canopy. The coachman must have been resting atop it, of course. But I paid no particular heed and tried to enter the bookstore. Then it happened—the coachman cracked his whip and shouted, 'Back! Back!' 'Suo, suo' being the Chinese command to make horses retreat. Before the words had even died away, the carriage began rattling backward. And at that very instant—how could I help but be shocked!—I too found myself stepping backward one foot at a time, still facing the bookstore. My state of mind then—whether terror or astonishment—defies all description. Though I strained with every fiber to move forward even an inch, some dreadful inexorable force kept driving me back. That the coachman barked 'Back!' proved fortunate for me in the end. When the carriage halted, I finally stopped retreating. But the strangeness didn't end there. Heaving a sigh of relief, I instinctively turned toward the carriage. Then the horse—the dappled gray beast pulling it—let out a most peculiar neigh. Peculiar? No—not merely peculiar."

In that shrill cry, I distinctly perceived the horse's laughter.
Not only the horse—I felt something akin to a whinny welling up in my own throat.
If I let out this sound, it would be disastrous.
No sooner had I clapped my hands over both ears than I bolted from the spot.……

Yet fate had prepared one final blow for Hansaburō. This was none other than— One afternoon in late March, he suddenly discovered his legs leaping and kicking of their own accord. Why did his horse legs suddenly begin acting up at this moment? To answer this question, Hansaburō’s diary must be examined. But unfortunately, his diary ends precisely one day before receiving the final blow. However, given the surrounding circumstances, it is not impossible to make a general estimation. In accordance with various texts such as Mazheng Ji, Ma Ji, Yuanxiang Liaoniu Matuo Ji, and Bole’s Xiangma Jing, I am convinced that the excitement in his legs was due to the following reason:—

That day saw a fierce yellow dust storm.
Yellow dust refers to the sand and grit carried to Beijing by Mongol spring winds.
According to an article in the *Shunten Times*, the yellow dust storm that day was unprecedented in over a decade, stating that "even when looking up at Zhengyang Gate from five paces away, one could no longer see its gate tower"—proof that it must have been exceptionally fierce.
Now, Shinobu Hansaburō’s horse legs were those attached to a dead horse from the market outside Deshengmen Gate—and that dead horse was unmistakably a Mongol-bred Kuren horse that had come through Zhangjiakou and Jinzhou.
Then, was it not rather inevitable that no sooner had his horse legs sensed the Mongol air than they immediately began to leap and kick?
Moreover, it was the season when horses beyond the frontier ran amok while desperately seeking mates.
Considering this, one must say that his horse legs’ inability to remain still was also worthy of sympathy.……

Putting aside the validity of this interpretation, it was said that even while at the company that day, Hansaburō kept leaping about as if performing a dance or some such thing.
It was also said that on his way back to the company housing, he trampled seven rickshaws within just three blocks.
Even after finally returning to the company housing—according to Tsuneko’s account—he staggered into the parlor panting like a dog.
After finally sitting on the sofa, he ordered his astonished wife to bring thin rope.
Tsuneko naturally imagined that a major incident had occurred based on her husband’s condition.
First, his complexion was extremely bad.
Not only that, but he kept moving his booted legs as though unable to bear his irritation.
Forgetting even her usual smile in her distress, she pleaded with him to tell her what he intended to do with the thin rope.
However, her husband merely repeated this while wiping sweat from his forehead with a pained expression.

“Hurry. Hurry.—If you don’t hurry, it’ll be disastrous.”

Tsuneko had no choice but to hand her husband a bundle of thin rope used for packing.
Then he began binding both booted legs with the thin rope.
It was at this moment that the terror called madness took root in her heart.
Tsuneko kept staring at her husband and, in a trembling voice, proposed calling Dr. Yamai for an examination.
However, he kept fervently winding the thin rope around his legs while flatly refusing to heed that suggestion.

“What does that quack know? That bastard’s a thief! A goddamned fraud! Forget him—get over here and hold me down!”

They clung to each other, sitting motionless on the sofa.
The yellow dust shrouding Beijing grew ever more intense.
Now even the setting sun beyond the window cast no semblance of light, leaving only a murky vermilion haze.
Of course Hansaburō's legs showed no sign of stillness during this time.
Still bound tight with thin cord, they kept moving ceaselessly like treading invisible pedals.
Tsuneko spoke to her husband in tones that both fretted over and sought to encourage him.

“You... you... why are you trembling so much?”

“It’s nothing.
“It’s nothing at all.”

“But you’re sweating so much,—let’s return to Japan this summer.”
“Come on, you—let’s return to Japan. It’s been so long.”

“Yeah, let’s return to Japan.”
“Let’s return to Japan and live there.”

Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes—time dragged its slow feet over them. Tsuneko told the *Shunten Times* reporter she had felt like a chained prisoner during that moment. But after some thirty minutes had passed, the time finally came when the chains were severed. Yet this was not what Tsuneko had meant by "the time when the chains were severed." It was the time when the human chains binding Hansaburō to his household were severed.

The window, tinged with a murky crimson hue—whether buffeted by a passing gust—suddenly rattled violently. No sooner did Hansaburō let out a loud cry than he leapt about three feet into the air. Tsuneko was said to have seen the thin rope snap apart at that moment. Hansaburō—this was not Tsuneko’s account. No sooner had she seen her husband leap up than she fainted on the sofa.

However, the Chinese attendant at the company housing told the same reporter as follows:
—Hansaburō leapt out to the entrance of the company housing as if pursued by something.
Then, for a mere instant, he stood at the entrance's edge.
But with a single shudder, he left behind an eerie cry resembling a horse’s whinny and charged headlong into the yellow dust storm shrouding the street.…

What became of Hansaburō afterward?
That remains a question even today.
It should be noted that a *Shunten Times* reporter documented how around 8 PM that day, under moonlight obscured by yellow dust, a single hatless man had been running along the railway tracks beneath Badaling—renowned for its view of the Great Wall.
However, this article does not seem to have been reliable reporting.
In fact, the same newspaper reporter also documented that around 8 PM, a single hatless man had been running along the grand avenue of the Thirteen Tombs—lined with stone figures and horses—through rain tinged with yellow dust.
After Hansaburō leapt out from the entrance of the company housing in XX Hutong, it must be said that it remains entirely unclear where he went or what became of him.

It goes without saying that Hansaburō’s disappearance became a sensation just like his resurrection had been.
However, Tsuneko, Manejaa, his colleagues, Dr. Yamai, and the editor-in-chief of the *Shunten Times* all interpreted his disappearance as stemming from madness.
Undoubtedly, attributing it to madness proved easier than attributing it to horse legs.
To forsake hardship and embrace simplicity has ever been the public way of the world.

Mr. Butaguchi—representing this public way as editor-in-chief of the *Shunten Times*—on the day following Hansaburō’s disappearance, wielded his grandiose pen and published the editorial below.—

“Mr.Shinobu Hansaburō, a Mitsubishi employee, yesterday evening at 5:15 appeared to have suddenly gone mad and, not heeding Mrs.Tsuneko’s attempts to stop him, vanished alone to parts unknown.”
According to Dr.Yamai, director of Jindong Hospital, Mr.Shinobu had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage the previous summer and had been unconscious for three days; since then, it was said he had likely exhibited some degree of mental abnormality.
Furthermore, drawing upon the diary of Mr.Shinobu discovered by Mrs.Tsuneko, it appears that he had always harbored bizarre delusions of persecution.
However, what we wish to inquire into is not the nature of Mr.Shinobu’s illness.
The nature of the responsibility lies with Mr.Shinobu as the husband of Mrs.Tsuneko.

“For Our Sacred and Inviolable National Polity rests upon familial principles.
If one posits that it rests upon familial principles, then how grave is the responsibility borne by the head of a household need not be questioned.
Does the head of a household have the right to recklessly go mad or not?
We resolutely answer 'No' before such a question.
Suppose husbands of the world were to obtain the right to go mad.
They would all abandon their families—some wandering roads while reciting verse, others roaming mountain streams, while still others would find bliss in mental hospitals, satiated and warmly clad.
Yet the two-thousand-year-old familial principles that command the world’s admiration must inevitably crumble to dust.
As the saying goes: Condemn the crime, not the person.
We are by no means inclined toward harshness against Mr.Shinobu from the outset.
However, his crime of heedless madness must be denounced with drums pounding.
No—is Mr.Shinobu’s sin alone?
The successive governments’ misrule in neglecting to enact bans on madness must also be condemned as if by heaven’s own voice.

“According to Mrs.Tsuneko’s account, it is reported she intends to remain at the company housing in XX Hutong for at least one year and await Mr.Shinobu’s return.”
“We express heartfelt sympathy for the virtuous Mrs.Tsuneko while earnestly hoping that the wise Mitsubishi authorities will not hesitate to accommodate her convenience.……”

However, at least Tsuneko alone encountered a certain new fact after about half a year had passed—one that made it impossible to rest content with this misunderstanding.

It was an October dusk when Beijing's willows and pagoda trees too began shedding their yellowed leaves.
Tsuneko sat on the sofa in the parlor, sunk in vague reminiscence.
Her lips no longer held their eternal smile.
Her cheeks had unwittingly grown gaunt.
She kept thinking of her vanished husband, the double bed she'd sold off, and those bedbugs.
Then came hesitant ringing at the company housing entrance.
She left it for the boy to answer.
But where had he gone? He didn't appear.
The bell rang again.
At last Tsuneko rose from the sofa and walked quietly toward the entrance.

In the entrance scattered with fallen leaves, a single hatless man stood in the dim light.
A hat—or rather, it wasn’t merely that he lacked a hat.
The man was indeed wearing a tattered coat covered in sand and dust.
Tsuneko felt something close to terror at the man’s appearance.

“Do you have some business?”

The man offered no reply and bowed his long-haired head.
Tsuneko, peering through his figure, timidly repeated once more.

“Do you... Do you have some business?”

The man finally lifted his head.

“Tsuneko…”

It was but a single word.
But just as moonlight would—this single word laid bare the man’s true nature more and more clearly.
Tsuneko held her breath and continued staring at the man’s face for some time, as though she had lost her voice.
The man had grown a beard and looked haggard like a different person.
Yet the eyes gazing at her were unmistakably those she had long awaited.

“You!”

Tsuneko tried to cling to her husband's chest while shouting this.
But no sooner had she taken a single step forward than she leapt back as if treading on red-hot iron.
Her husband was exposing his hairy horse legs beneath torn trousers.
He was exposing chestnut horse legs, their coat color visible even in the dim light.

“You!”

Tsuneko felt indescribable disgust toward these horse legs.
But she felt that if she let this moment slip away, she would never see her husband again.
Her husband was still gazing at her face with a sorrowful expression.
Tsuneko tried once more to throw herself against her husband’s chest.
But disgust once again overwhelmed her courage.

“You!”

When she said this for the third time, her husband whirled around to turn his back and quietly descended the entranceway.
Tsuneko mustered her final courage and desperately tried to pursue him.
But before she could take a single step, the clattering sound of hooves struck her ears.
Tsuneko stared fixedly at her husband's retreating figure, her face pallid as if she had lost even the courage to call out.
Then—she collapsed dully into unconsciousness amidst the entranceway's fallen leaves......

Since this incident, Tsuneko came to believe her husband's diary.
However, Maney-jaa, colleagues, Dr.Yamai, Mr.Butaguchi, and others still did not believe that Shinobu Hansaburō's legs had turned into those of a horse.
Not only that, but they also believed Tsuneko's sighting of the horse legs was a hallucination she had fallen into.

During my stay in Beijing, I met with Dr.Yamai and Mr.Butaguchi and often tried to dispel that delusion.
But I only ever received mocking opposition in return.
After that—no, more recently—novelist Mr.Okada Saburō also appears to have heard this story from someone and sent a letter stating he simply could not believe that he had acquired horse legs.
Mr.Okada stated that if this were factual, "I suppose they probably attached front horse legs, but even if they were exceptional limbs capable of performing feats like the so-called Spanish trot, they might manage such tricks as kicking things with their forelegs—though unless someone like Major Yuasa were riding them, I find it questionable whether the horse itself could actually accomplish this."
I too, of course, could not help but harbor some doubts on that point.
But isn’t it somewhat hasty to dismiss not only Hansaburō’s diary but even Tsuneko’s testimony based solely on such reasoning?

According to my investigation, the Shunten Times that reported his resurrection carried such an article two or three columns below on the same page:――

“Mr. Henry Barrett, Chairman of the Meihua Temperance Society, died suddenly aboard a Jinghan Railway train.
“The gentleman was found dead holding a medicine jar, giving rise to suspicions of suicide; however, analysis revealed that the liquid within the jar was alcohol.”

(Taisho 14, January)