Ward No. 6 Page #14

"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.

								

judge of a horse's quality by its outward appearance. The doctor began
to have a buzzing in his ears and palpitations of the heart, but out of
delicacy could not bring himself to beg his friend to go away or hold
his tongue. Fortunately Mihail Averyanitch grew weary of sitting in the
hotel room, and after dinner he went out for a walk.

As soon as he was alone Andrey Yefimitch abandoned himself to a feeling
of relief. How pleasant to lie motionless on the sofa and to know that
one is alone in the room! Real happiness is impossible without solitude.
The fallen angel betrayed God probably because he longed for solitude,
of which the angels know nothing. Andrey Yefimitch wanted to think about
what he had seen and heard during the last few days, but he could not
get Mihail Averyanitch out of his head.

"Why, he has taken a holiday and come with me out of friendship, out of
generosity," thought the doctor with vexation; "nothing could be worse
than this friendly supervision. I suppose he is good-natured and
generous and a lively fellow, but he is a bore. An insufferable bore. In
the same way there are people who never say anything but what is clever
and good, yet one feels that they are dull-witted people."

For the following days Andrey Yefimitch declared himself ill and would
not leave the hotel room; he lay with his face to the back of the sofa,
and suffered agonies of weariness when his friend entertained him with
conversation, or rested when his friend was absent. He was vexed with
himself for having come, and with his friend, who grew every day more
talkative and more free-and-easy; he could not succeed in attuning his
thoughts to a serious and lofty level.

"This is what I get from the real life Ivan Dmitritch talked about," he
thought, angry at his own pettiness. "It's of no consequence, though. .
. . I shall go home, and everything will go on as before . . . ."

It was the same thing in Petersburg too; for whole days together he did
not leave the hotel room, but lay on the sofa and only got up to drink
beer.

Mihail Averyanitch was all haste to get to Warsaw.

"My dear man, what should I go there for?" said Andrey Yefimitch in an
imploring voice. "You go alone and let me get home! I entreat you!"

"On no account," protested Mihail Averyanitch. "It's a marvellous town."

Andrey Yefimitch had not the strength of will to insist on his own way,
and much against his inclination went to Warsaw. There he did not leave
the hotel room, but lay on the sofa, furious with himself, with his
friend, and with the waiters, who obstinately refused to understand
Russian; while Mihail Averyanitch, healthy, hearty, and full of spirits
as usual, went about the town from morning to night, looking for his old
acquaintances. Several times he did not return home at night. After one
night spent in some unknown haunt he returned home early in the morning,
in a violently excited condition, with a red face and tousled hair. For
a long time he walked up and down the rooms muttering something to
himself, then stopped and said:

"Honour before everything."

After walking up and down a little longer he clutched his head in both
hands and pronounced in a tragic voice: "Yes, honour before everything!
Accursed be the moment when the idea first entered my head to visit this
Babylon! My dear friend," he added, addressing the doctor, "you may
despise me, I have played and lost; lend me five hundred roubles!"

Andrey Yefimitch counted out five hundred roubles and gave them to his
friend without a word. The latter, still crimson with shame and anger,
incoherently articulated some useless vow, put on his cap, and went out.
Returning two hours later he flopped into an easy-chair, heaved a loud
sigh, and said:

"My honour is saved. Let us go, my friend; I do not care to remain
another hour in this accursed town. Scoundrels! Austrian spies!"

By the time the friends were back in their own town it was November, and
deep snow was lying in the streets. Dr. Hobotov had Andrey Yefimitch's
post; he was still living in his old lodgings, waiting for Andrey
Yefimitch to arrive and clear out of the hospital apartments. The plain
woman whom he called his cook was already established in one of the
lodges.

Fresh scandals about the hospital were going the round of the town. It
was said that the plain woman had quarrelled with the superintendent,
and that the latter had crawled on his knees before her begging
forgiveness. On the very first day he arrived Andrey Yefimitch had to
look out for lodgings.

"My friend," the postmaster said to him timidly, "excuse an indiscreet
question: what means have you at your disposal?"

Andrey Yefimitch, without a word, counted out his money and said:
"Eighty-six roubles."

"I don't mean that," Mihail Averyanitch brought out in confusion,
misunderstanding him; "I mean, what have you to live on?"

"I tell you, eighty-six roubles . . . I have nothing else."

Mihail Averyanitch looked upon the doctor as an honourable man, yet he
suspected that he had accumulated a fortune of at least twenty thousand.
Now learning that Andrey Yefimitch was a beggar, that he had nothing to
live on he was for some reason suddenly moved to tears and embraced his
friend. XV

Andrey Yefimitch now lodged in a little house with three windows. There
were only three rooms besides the kitchen in the little house. The
doctor lived in two of them which looked into the street, while
Daryushka and the landlady with her three children lived in the third
room and the kitchen. Sometimes the landlady's lover, a drunken peasant
who was rowdy and reduced the children and Daryushka to terror, would
come for the night. When he arrived and established himself in the
kitchen and demanded vodka, they all felt very uncomfortable, and the
doctor would be moved by pity to take the crying children into his room
and let them lie on his floor, and this gave him great satisfaction.

He got up as before at eight o'clock, and after his morning tea sat down
to read his old books and magazines: he had no money for new ones.
Either because the books were old, or perhaps because of the change in
his surroundings, reading exhausted him, and did not grip his attention
as before. That he might not spend his time in idleness he made a
detailed catalogue of his books and gummed little labels on their backs,
and this mechanical, tedious work seemed to him more interesting than
reading. The monotonous, tedious work lulled his thoughts to sleep in
some unaccountable way, and the time passed quickly while he thought of
nothing. Even sitting in the kitchen, peeling potatoes with Daryushka or
picking over the buckwheat grain, seemed to him interesting. On
Saturdays and Sundays he went to church. Standing near the wall and half
closing his eyes, he listened to the singing and thought of his father,
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