Ward No. 6 Page #11

"Ward No. 6" by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov is a poignant and thought-provoking short story that explores the themes of madness, isolation, and the nature of sanity. Set in a mental institution, it follows Dr. Andrei Yefimitch Ivanov, the director of the ward, who becomes emotionally and intellectually entangled with a patient named Gromov. Through their conversations, the story delves into the existential crises faced by both the doctor and the patients, challenging the boundaries between sanity and insanity. Chekhov's exploration of human suffering, societal norms, and the fragility of the human mind invites readers to reflect on the complexities of life and the often arbitrary distinctions we draw regarding mental health.

								

Take Christ, for instance: Christ responded to reality by weeping,
smiling, being sorrowful and moved to wrath, even overcome by misery. He
did not go to meet His sufferings with a smile, He did not despise
death, but prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane that this cup might pass
Him by."

Ivan Dmitritch laughed and sat down.

"Granted that a man's peace and contentment lie not outside but in
himself," he said, "granted that one must despise suffering and not be
surprised at anything, yet on what ground do you preach the theory? Are
you a sage? A philosopher?"

"No, I am not a philosopher, but everyone ought to preach it because it
is reasonable."

"No, I want to know how it is that you consider yourself competent to
judge of 'comprehension,' contempt for suffering, and so on. Have you
ever suffered? Have you any idea of suffering? Allow me to ask you, were
you ever thrashed in your childhood?"

"No, my parents had an aversion for corporal punishment."

"My father used to flog me cruelly; my father was a harsh, sickly
Government clerk with a long nose and a yellow neck. But let us talk of
you. No one has laid a finger on you all your life, no one has scared
you nor beaten you; you are as strong as a bull. You grew up under your
father's wing and studied at his expense, and then you dropped at once
into a sinecure. For more than twenty years you have lived rent free
with heating, lighting, and service all provided, and had the right to
work how you pleased and as much as you pleased, even to do nothing. You
were naturally a flabby, lazy man, and so you have tried to arrange your
life so that nothing should disturb you or make you move. You have
handed over your work to the assistant and the rest of the rabble while
you sit in peace and warmth, save money, read, amuse yourself with
reflections, with all sorts of lofty nonsense, and" (Ivan Dmitritch
looked at the doctor's red nose) "with boozing; in fact, you have seen
nothing of life, you know absolutely nothing of it, and are only
theoretically acquainted with reality; you despise suffering and are
surprised at nothing for a very simple reason: vanity of vanities, the
external and the internal, contempt for life, for suffering and for
death, comprehension, true happiness--that's the philosophy that suits
the Russian sluggard best. You see a peasant beating his wife, for
instance. Why interfere? Let him beat her, they will both die sooner or
later, anyway; and, besides, he who beats injures by his blows, not the
person he is beating, but himself. To get drunk is stupid and unseemly,
but if you drink you die, and if you don't drink you die. A peasant
woman comes with toothache . . . well, what of it? Pain is the idea of
pain, and besides 'there is no living in this world without illness; we
shall all die, and so, go away, woman, don't hinder me from thinking and
drinking vodka.' A young man asks advice, what he is to do, how he is to
live; anyone else would think before answering, but you have got the
answer ready: strive for 'comprehension' or for true happiness. And what
is that fantastic 'true happiness'? There's no answer, of course. We are
kept here behind barred windows, tortured, left to rot; but that is very
good and reasonable, because there is no difference at all between this
ward and a warm, snug study. A convenient philosophy. You can do
nothing, and your conscience is clear, and you feel you are wise . . . .
No, sir, it is not philosophy, it's not thinking, it's not breadth of
vision, but laziness, fakirism, drowsy stupefaction. Yes," cried Ivan
Dmitritch, getting angry again, "you despise suffering, but I'll be
bound if you pinch your finger in the door you will howl at the top of
your voice."

"And perhaps I shouldn't howl," said Andrey Yefimitch, with a gentle
smile.

"Oh, I dare say! Well, if you had a stroke of paralysis, or supposing
some fool or bully took advantage of his position and rank to insult you
in public, and if you knew he could do it with impunity, then you would
understand what it means to put people off with comprehension and true
happiness."

"That's original," said Andrey Yefimitch, laughing with pleasure and
rubbing his hands. "I am agreeably struck by your inclination for
drawing generalizations, and the sketch of my character you have just
drawn is simply brilliant. I must confess that talking to you gives me
great pleasure. Well, I've listened to you, and now you must graciously
listen to me." XI

The conversation went on for about an hour longer, and apparently made a
deep impression on Andrey Yefimitch. He began going to the ward every
day. He went there in the mornings and after dinner, and often the dusk
of evening found him in conversation with Ivan Dmitritch. At first Ivan
Dmitritch held aloof from him, suspected him of evil designs, and openly
expressed his hostility. But afterwards he got used to him, and his
abrupt manner changed to one of condescending irony.

Soon it was all over the hospital that the doctor, Andrey Yefimitch, had
taken to visiting Ward No. 6. No one--neither Sergey Sergevitch, nor
Nikita, nor the nurses--could conceive why he went there, why he stayed
there for hours together, what he was talking about, and why he did not
write prescriptions. His actions seemed strange. Often Mihail
Averyanitch did not find him at home, which had never happened in the
past, and Daryushka was greatly perturbed, for the doctor drank his beer
now at no definite time, and sometimes was even late for dinner.

One day--it was at the end of June--Dr. Hobotov went to see Andrey
Yefimitch about something. Not finding him at home, he proceeded to look
for him in the yard; there he was told that the old doctor had gone to
see the mental patients. Going into the lodge and stopping in the entry,
Hobotov heard the following conversation:

"We shall never agree, and you will not succeed in converting me to your
faith," Ivan Dmitritch was saying irritably; "you are utterly ignorant
of reality, and you have never known suffering, but have only like a
leech fed beside the sufferings of others, while I have been in
continual suffering from the day of my birth till to-day. For that
reason, I tell you frankly, I consider myself superior to you and more
competent in every respect. It's not for you to teach me."

"I have absolutely no ambition to convert you to my faith," said Andrey
Yefimitch gently, and with regret that the other refused to understand
him. "And that is not what matters, my friend; what matters is not that
you have suffered and I have not. Joy and suffering are passing; let us
leave them, never mind them. What matters is that you and I think; we
see in each other people who are capable of thinking and reasoning, and
that is a common bond between us however different our views. If you
knew, my friend, how sick I am of the universal senselessness,
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