Hearth Interactive

Mask

Draft: this translation has not yet been checked against the original by a separate review.

Written
July 1920 (events of the winter of 1919–20 and the spring of 1920)
Place
Tokyo
Language
Japanese
Kind of source
literature
Reading time
10 minutes
Difficulty
Accessible
Intensity
Low

Influenza pandemic (1918–1920)Influenza

Once in a Lifetime themes: Fear, Aftermath

Versions

The edited translation, in simplified modern English. Bracketed words were added for clarity; [...] marks a cut. Tap a note number to read the note.

I look plump, so other people think I am very robust. But I knew better than anyone that every one of my internal organs was weaker than most people’s.

Even a slight slope left me out of breath. So did a flight of stairs. When I was a newspaper reporter, I would run up the stairs of some big government office. Then, when I was shown into the room of the man I had come to see, I would still be panting so hard that sometimes I could not begin to speak right away.

My lungs were not very strong either. When I tried to take a deep breath, my chest would tighten after a certain point, and I could not breathe in any farther.

Besides a weak heart and weak lungs, I had damaged my stomach and bowels sometime last year. Not one of my organs was strong. And yet my body is plump. To an untrained eye I always look sturdy. I knew perfectly well that my insides were weak. But when people kept telling me, “You look so healthy, so healthy,” just hearing it gave me a kind of false confidence. It is like a plain woman who starts to think, “Maybe I’m not so bad after all,” when the people around her pay her a compliment.

I was really weak. Still, I felt safer back when I had that mistaken confidence in my health, which came from being told I looked healthy.

But at the end of last year I upset my stomach and bowels badly and went to see a doctor, and he gave me a rather harsh disillusionment.

The doctor was feeling my pulse.

“Why, there’s no pulse,” he said. “That can’t be right.” He tilted his head and seemed to be listening hard for something. No wonder he said so. At some point, I don’t know when, my pulse had grown faint. Even when I held my own wrist still for a long time, I could only just feel it, as if it were hardly there at all.

The doctor held my wrist in silence for a full minute. Then he said,

“Ah, it’s there, all right. But it’s unusually weak. Has a doctor ever told you anything about your heart?” His face had grown a little serious.

“No,” I answered. “But then, I haven’t seen a doctor for two or three years.”

Without a word, the doctor put his stethoscope to my chest. I felt uneasy, as if he were sniffing out the secret of my life that lay hidden there.

He moved the stethoscope again and again, exploring all around my heart from the outside, leaving no spot untried.

“I can’t be sure unless I examine you when your heart is racing. But it seems that the valves of your heart don’t close properly.”

“Is that an illness?” I asked.

“It is. Your heart is defective, you see, so nothing can be added to it or done about it. For one thing, it’s a place we can’t operate on.”

“Is my life in danger?” I asked timidly.

“No. You’ve lived this long with it, so you’ll be all right if you take good care of it. But your heart also seems a little enlarged on the right side. You mustn’t get too fat. If you get a fatty heart, it can just give out, like that.”

Not one thing the doctor said was good news. I had long been prepared for a weak heart, but I had not thought it was this weak.

“You must be careful. When there’s a fire, for instance, you mustn’t go running out. Not long ago, when there was a fire in Motomachi, a man’s heart failed at Suidōbashi,1 and he died. They called me, so I went and examined him. His heart was very weak, and yet it seems he had run all the way from his house, about ten chō [over half a mile]. If you’re not careful, you could drop dead any time, too. Above all, don’t get into quarrels and get excited. And fevers are dangerous. If you catch typhoid or influenza and run a fever of about 40 degrees [104°F] for three or four days, there’ll be no saving you.”

This doctor never offered comfort or glossed things over. But I wished he had said something more comforting, even if it was a lie. With the danger to my heart spelled out so bluntly, I felt a kind of bleak dreariness.

“Isn’t there something I can do to prevent it, some way of looking after myself?” I asked, looking for a last way out.

“No. Only, don’t eat fatty things. Avoid meat and oily fish as much as you can. Eat plain vegetables.”

“Oh dear,” I thought. Eating was just about my greatest pleasure, and for me a diet like that was deadly.

After that examination, I felt that my life was in danger every moment. Especially because, just around then, the influenza2 began to spread with terrible force. If the doctor was right, catching it would mean death for me. What was more, the doctors’ talks on the influenza that the newspapers printed again and again at that time kept repeating the same idea: a strong or a weak heart decided who lived and who died.

You could say I was terrified of the influenza. I wanted to protect myself as much as I could. I meant to do my very best not to catch it. People might laugh at me for a coward, but I could not bear the thought of catching it and dying.

I went out as little as possible. I kept my wife and the maid from going out as much as I could. Morning and evening I gargled with hydrogen peroxide. When I had to go out on business that could not be helped, I wore a mask stuffed with plenty of gauze.3 And I gargled carefully when I left and when I came home.

In this way I took every precaution. But visitors could not be helped. When someone came to see me who had only just got over a cold and was still coughing, my spirits sank. Once a friend’s fever kept rising while we talked, so I sent him home. Afterward word came that his fever had reached 40 degrees, and for two or three days I felt uneasy.

My hopes and fears rose and fell with the number of deaths printed in the newspaper every day. The number grew day by day until it reached 3,337. That was the highest. When it began to fall, little by little, I was relieved. But I stayed careful. Through all of February I hardly went out. My friends, and even my wife, laughed at my cowardice. I thought I might have a touch of hypochondria from neurasthenia.4 But my fear of the influenza was a real feeling that nothing could take my mind off.

In March, as the cold eased day by day, the threat of influenza slowly faded too. Hardly anyone wore a mask anymore. But I still did not take mine off.

“To have no fear of illness and run the risk of infection—that’s the courage of a savage. To fear illness and avoid every risk of infection is the courage of a civilized man. I know it looks odd to wear a mask when no one else does anymore. But I think that’s not cowardice. It’s the courage of a civilized man.”

That is how I explained myself to my friends. And in my heart, too, I partly believed it.

I did not give up my mask until near the end of March. By then the newspapers ran stories now and then saying the influenza had left the cities and gone off into remote mountain districts. But I still did not give up my mask. Hardly anyone else wore one by now. But once in a while, among the passengers waiting at a streetcar stop, I would find one person with nose and mouth covered by a black cloth. That made me feel very reassured. He seemed a kind of comrade, a kindred spirit. Each time I found someone like that, I was saved from the embarrassment of being the only one in a mask. I even felt a kind of pride, as if I were a true follower of hygiene, a civilized man who valued life to the utmost.

April came, then May. Even I no longer wore a mask. But around the turn from April to May, two or three newspapers ran stories saying the influenza had come back. I was sick of it. That even in April and May we were still not quite free of the threat of influenza was more unpleasant than I could stand.

Still, even I did not feel like putting on a mask again. In the daytime the early summer sun shone warm and full. Whatever excuse I had, I could hardly wear a mask now. The newspaper stories weighed on my mind, but the season itself was giving me courage.

It was the middle of May. A baseball team from Chicago5 had come, and games were being played at Waseda6 almost every day. That day the Imperial University7 was playing. For the first time in a long while, I felt like watching baseball. As a student I had been quite a fan, but in the last year or two I had hardly seen a game.

The weather was so clear you could call it perfect. The heights of Mejirodai,8 covered in fresh green leaves, were refreshing to see. I got off the streetcar at the last stop and took a back street toward the ballpark. I knew the area quite well. I was hurrying along the fence around the grounds toward the entrance when a young man of about twenty-three or twenty-four passed me. I happened to glance at his face from the side. To my surprise, he was wearing a black mask. When I saw it, I could not help feeling an unpleasant shock. At the same moment I felt plain hatred for him. Somehow he seemed thoroughly annoying. In that black mask jutting out from his face I even saw a nasty, monstrous ugliness.

The main reason he annoyed me must have been that, on such a fine day, he reminded me of the threat of influenza. Mixed in, too, was a selfish feeling. When I wore a mask, I had been glad to meet the rare person who wore one too; now that I had stopped, people in masks looked unpleasant to me. But beyond those feelings I sensed something more. Was my dislike of this man the resentment the weak feel toward the strong? Even I, who had been so eager to wear a mask, now felt too embarrassed to wear one, because of the season. And here he was, boldly and proudly wearing his mask, pushing his way into a place where thousands of people had gathered. Wasn’t that the attitude of a truly strong man? At any rate, I thought, this young man was bravely doing what I could not bring myself to do, because of the season and what people would think. I wondered whether I disliked him because I felt crushed by his courage.

Notes

  1. Districts of central Tokyo. back
  2. 流行性感冒 ryūkōsei kanbō, “epidemic cold,” the usual Japanese term then for influenza. The pandemic that began in 1918 struck Japan in more than one wave; here it is the winter of 1919–20. back
  3. Japanese health officials urged people to wear gauze masks and to gargle during the influenza epidemics. back
  4. Neurasthenia, “nervous exhaustion,” was a common diagnosis of the time for anxiety and fatigue. For “hypochondria” the text uses a Japanese word meaning “fear-of-illness disorder,” glossed with the European word. back
  5. Probably the University of Chicago team, which visited Japan as guests of Waseda University. back
  6. Waseda University, a private university in Tokyo with its own baseball ground. back
  7. Tokyo Imperial University, now the University of Tokyo. back
  8. A hilly district in northwest Tokyo, next to Waseda. back