Akutagawa Ryūnosuke - Duck Hunting

     The last time I saw Professor Keigetsu Ōmachi was in 1924, on New Year’s Day.  We went duck hunting in Shinagawa Bay with a group of friends: Misei Kosugi, Taneaki Shindai, and Torayoshi Ichikawa. I remember that we met early that morning at the boathouse near Ichino Bridge in Honjo. From there, we coasted down the river in our rented motorboat loaded with supplies for the day of planned hunting. 

    Kosugi and Shindai were both seasoned hunters. It showed in their confident stance, the quality of their gear, and in how they were dressed. To make matters worse (I’m extremely self-conscious, in case that wasn't obvious), the guide they hired was a renowned hunter himself; his name is still known by many hunters today. 

    The great and tragic irony of all this was that, even with these eminent hunters in attendance, none of us shot a single bird that day. Cormorants and ducks spotted our boat without fail every time we approached and scattered into the sky before we could even take aim. Professor Ōmachi was amused no end at our repeated failures to bag a bird, clapping his hands and laughing whenever a flock dispersed and settled at a distance. “Amazing!” he remarked. “The ducks can read! Look! They fly to the areas marked ‘No Hunting.’ They know exactly where to go.” 

    Ōmachi’s obnoxious comments punctuated each failure, much to all our dismay. His mustache was soaked in booze; the hood of his garish fox-brown hat cast an ominous shadow on the waters around the boat. The spectacle of Ōmachi alone would be enough to frighten all the ducks away.

    All told, we spent a total of ten hours on the bay drifting in the wind, with nothing to show for it. By the time we returned to the dock, Ōmachi had sobered up and was no longer remarking unkindly on our misadventure. He was in a sullen mood, as were we all.  As we were disembarking, he said, “I promised my children I would bring home two ducks, one for each of them." He sounded crestfallen. "I don’t know what to do now. I can’t let them down. They were planning to give the ducks to their teachers tomorrow as gifts.”

    We discussed the problem outside the boathouse for a bit. Ultimately, we all decided to walk to a nearby poultry house where Ōmachi could buy a pair of ducks. The only problem was that these ducks had been captured with birdlime traps. 

    Kosugi pointed this out after Ōmachi had made his purchase. “That means,” he said, “there’s no bullet holes in them. Don’t you think your children will notice? We ought to shoot each of them once, so that it looks like we hunted them. Come on. Let’s do it in the alley over there.”

    Ōmachi shook his head like a fearful child. “No, they’re fine as is. My kids won’t notice the difference,” he said, wrapping the ducks in old newspapers. When he was finished, he said good-bye to us without preamble, then carried the bundles home, one under each arm. 

Translator's Note

This essay is undated, but seems to be in response to the death of Professor Ōmachi, who died in 1925.