Ward No. 6 Page #13

"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.

								

pathology!"

And for the first time in his life he felt insulted and moved to anger.

In the evening of the same day Mihail Averyanitch came to see him. The
postmaster went up to him without waiting to greet him, took him by both
hands, and said in an agitated voice:

"My dear fellow, my dear friend, show me that you believe in my genuine
affection and look on me as your friend!" And preventing Andrey
Yefimitch from speaking, he went on, growing excited: "I love you for
your culture and nobility of soul. Listen to me, my dear fellow. The
rules of their profession compel the doctors to conceal the truth from
you, but I blurt out the plain truth like a soldier. You are not well!
Excuse me, my dear fellow, but it is the truth; everyone about you has
been noticing it for a long time. Dr. Yevgeny Fyodoritch has just told
me that it is essential for you to rest and distract your mind for the
sake of your health. Perfectly true! Excellent! In a day or two I am
taking a holiday and am going away for a sniff of a different
atmosphere. Show that you are a friend to me, let us go together! Let us
go for a jaunt as in the good old days."

"I feel perfectly well," said Andrey Yefimitch after a moment's thought.
"I can't go away. Allow me to show you my friendship in some other way."

To go off with no object, without his books, without his Daryushka,
without his beer, to break abruptly through the routine of life,
established for twenty years--the idea for the first minute struck him as
wild and fantastic, but he remembered the conversation at the Zemstvo
committee and the depressing feelings with which he had returned home,
and the thought of a brief absence from the town in which stupid people
looked on him as a madman was pleasant to him.

"And where precisely do you intend to go?" he asked.

"To Moscow, to Petersburg, to Warsaw. . . . I spent the five happiest
years of my life in Warsaw. What a marvellous town! Let us go, my dear
fellow!" XIII

A week later it was suggested to Andrey Yefimitch that he should have a
rest--that is, send in his resignation--a suggestion he received with
indifference, and a week later still, Mihail Averyanitch and he were
sitting in a posting carriage driving to the nearest railway station.
The days were cool and bright, with a blue sky and a transparent
distance. They were two days driving the hundred and fifty miles to the
railway station, and stayed two nights on the way. When at the posting
station the glasses given them for their tea had not been properly
washed, or the drivers were slow in harnessing the horses, Mihail
Averyanitch would turn crimson, and quivering all over would shout:

"Hold your tongue! Don't argue!"

And in the carriage he talked without ceasing for a moment, describing
his campaigns in the Caucasus and in Poland. What adventures he had had,
what meetings! He talked loudly and opened his eyes so wide with wonder
that he might well be thought to be lying. Moreover, as he talked he
breathed in Andrey Yefimitch's face and laughed into his ear. This
bothered the doctor and prevented him from thinking or concentrating his
mind.

In the train they travelled, from motives of economy, third-class in a
non-smoking compartment. Half the passengers were decent people. Mihail
Averyanitch soon made friends with everyone, and moving from one seat to
another, kept saying loudly that they ought not to travel by these
appalling lines. It was a regular swindle! A very different thing riding
on a good horse: one could do over seventy miles a day and feel fresh
and well after it. And our bad harvests were due to the draining of the
Pinsk marshes; altogether, the way things were done was dreadful. He got
excited, talked loudly, and would not let others speak. This endless
chatter to the accompaniment of loud laughter and expressive gestures
wearied Andrey Yefimitch.

"Which of us is the madman?" he thought with vexation. "I, who try not
to disturb my fellow-passengers in any way, or this egoist who thinks
that he is cleverer and more interesting than anyone here, and so will
leave no one in peace?"

In Moscow Mihail Averyanitch put on a military coat without epaulettes
and trousers with red braid on them. He wore a military cap and overcoat
in the street, and soldiers saluted him. It seemed to Andrey Yefimitch,
now, that his companion was a man who had flung away all that was good
and kept only what was bad of all the characteristics of a country
gentleman that he had once possessed. He liked to be waited on even when
it was quite unnecessary. The matches would be lying before him on the
table, and he would see them and shout to the waiter to give him the
matches; he did not hesitate to appear before a maidservant in nothing
but his underclothes; he used the familiar mode of address to all
footmen indiscriminately, even old men, and when he was angry called
them fools and blockheads. This, Andrey Yefimitch thought, was like a
gentleman, but disgusting.

First of all Mihail Averyanitch led his friend to the Iversky Madonna.
He prayed fervently, shedding tears and bowing down to the earth, and
when he had finished, heaved a deep sigh and said:

"Even though one does not believe it makes one somehow easier when one
prays a little. Kiss the ikon, my dear fellow."

Andrey Yefimitch was embarrassed and he kissed the image, while Mihail
Averyanitch pursed up his lips and prayed in a whisper, and again tears
came into his eyes. Then they went to the Kremlin and looked there at
the Tsar-cannon and the Tsar-bell, and even touched them with their
fingers, admired the view over the river, visited St. Saviour's and the
Rumyantsev museum.

They dined at Tyestov's. Mihail Averyanitch looked a long time at the
menu, stroking his whiskers, and said in the tone of a gourmand
accustomed to dine in restaurants:

"We shall see what you give us to eat to-day, angel!" XIV

The doctor walked about, looked at things, ate and drank, but he had all
the while one feeling: annoyance with Mihail Averyanitch. He longed to
have a rest from his friend, to get away from him, to hide himself,
while the friend thought it was his duty not to let the doctor move a
step away from him, and to provide him with as many distractions as
possible. When there was nothing to look at he entertained him with
conversation. For two days Andrey Yefimitch endured it, but on the third
he announced to his friend that he was ill and wanted to stay at home
for the whole day; his friend replied that in that case he would stay
too--that really he needed rest, for he was run off his legs already.
Andrey Yefimitch lay on the sofa, with his face to the back, and
clenching his teeth, listened to his friend, who assured him with heat
that sooner or later France would certainly thrash Germany, that there
were a great many scoundrels in Moscow, and that it was impossible to
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