Ward No. 6 Page #15

"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.

								

of his mother, of the university, of the religions of the world; he felt
calm and melancholy, and as he went out of the church afterwards he
regretted that the service was so soon over. He went twice to the
hospital to talk to Ivan Dmitritch. But on both occasions Ivan Dmitritch
was unusually excited and ill-humoured; he bade the doctor leave him in
peace, as he had long been sick of empty chatter, and declared, to make
up for all his sufferings, he asked from the damned scoundrels only one
favour--solitary confinement. Surely they would not refuse him even that?
On both occasions when Andrey Yefimitch was taking leave of him and
wishing him good-night, he answered rudely and said:

"Go to hell!"

And Andrey Yefimitch did not know now whether to go to him for the third
time or not. He longed to go.

In old days Andrey Yefimitch used to walk about his rooms and think in
the interval after dinner, but now from dinner-time till evening tea he
lay on the sofa with his face to the back and gave himself up to trivial
thoughts which he could not struggle against. He was mortified that
after more than twenty years of service he had been given neither a
pension nor any assistance. It is true that he had not done his work
honestly, but, then, all who are in the Service get a pension without
distinction whether they are honest or not. Contemporary justice lies
precisely in the bestowal of grades, orders, and pensions, not for moral
qualities or capacities, but for service whatever it may have been like.
Why was he alone to be an exception? He had no money at all. He was
ashamed to pass by the shop and look at the woman who owned it. He owed
thirty-two roubles for beer already. There was money owing to the
landlady also. Daryushka sold old clothes and books on the sly, and told
lies to the landlady, saying that the doctor was just going to receive a
large sum of money.

He was angry with himself for having wasted on travelling the thousand
roubles he had saved up. How useful that thousand roubles would have
been now! He was vexed that people would not leave him in peace. Hobotov
thought it his duty to look in on his sick colleague from time to time.
Everything about him was revolting to Andrey Yefimitch--his well-fed face
and vulgar, condescending tone, and his use of the word "colleague," and
his high top-boots; the most revolting thing was that he thought it was
his duty to treat Andrey Yefimitch, and thought that he really was
treating him. On every visit he brought a bottle of bromide and rhubarb
pills.

Mihail Averyanitch, too, thought it his duty to visit his friend and
entertain him. Every time he went in to Andrey Yefimitch with an
affectation of ease, laughed constrainedly, and began assuring him that
he was looking very well to-day, and that, thank God, he was on the
highroad to recovery, and from this it might be concluded that he looked
on his friend's condition as hopeless. He had not yet repaid his Warsaw
debt, and was overwhelmed by shame; he was constrained, and so tried to
laugh louder and talk more amusingly. His anecdotes and descriptions
seemed endless now, and were an agony both to Andrey Yefimitch and
himself.

In his presence Andrey Yefimitch usually lay on the sofa with his face
to the wall, and listened with his teeth clenched; his soul was
oppressed with rankling disgust, and after every visit from his friend
he felt as though this disgust had risen higher, and was mounting into
his throat.

To stifle petty thoughts he made haste to reflect that he himself, and
Hobotov, and Mihail Averyanitch, would all sooner or later perish
without leaving any trace on the world. If one imagined some spirit
flying by the earthly globe in space in a million years he would see
nothing but clay and bare rocks. Everything--culture and the moral
law--would pass away and not even a burdock would grow out of them. Of
what consequence was shame in the presence of a shopkeeper, of what
consequence was the insignificant Hobotov or the wearisome friendship of
Mihail Averyanitch? It was all trivial and nonsensical.

But such reflections did not help him now. Scarcely had he imagined the
earthly globe in a million years, when Hobotov in his high top-boots or
Mihail Averyanitch with his forced laugh would appear from behind a bare
rock, and he even heard the shamefaced whisper: "The Warsaw debt. . . .
I will repay it in a day or two, my dear fellow, without fail. . . ."
XVI

One day Mihail Averyanitch came after dinner when Andrey Yefimitch was
lying on the sofa. It so happened that Hobotov arrived at the same time
with his bromide. Andrey Yefimitch got up heavily and sat down, leaning
both arms on the sofa.

"You have a much better colour to-day than you had yesterday, my dear
man," began Mihail Averyanitch. "Yes, you look jolly. Upon my soul, you
do!"

"It's high time you were well, dear colleague," said Hobotov, yawning.
"I'll be bound, you are sick of this bobbery."

"And we shall recover," said Mihail Averyanitch cheerfully. "We shall
live another hundred years! To be sure!"

"Not a hundred years, but another twenty," Hobotov said reassuringly.
"It's all right, all right, colleague; don't lose heart. . . . Don't go
piling it on!"

"We'll show what we can do," laughed Mihail Averyanitch, and he slapped
his friend on the knee. "We'll show them yet! Next summer, please God,
we shall be off to the Caucasus, and we will ride all over it on
horseback--trot, trot, trot! And when we are back from the Caucasus I
shouldn't wonder if we will all dance at the wedding." Mihail
Averyanitch gave a sly wink. "We'll marry you, my dear boy, we'll marry
you. . . ."

Andrey Yefimitch felt suddenly that the rising disgust had mounted to
his throat, his heart began beating violently.

"That's vulgar," he said, getting up quickly and walking away to the
window. "Don't you understand that you are talking vulgar nonsense?"

He meant to go on softly and politely, but against his will he suddenly
clenched his fists and raised them above his head.

"Leave me alone," he shouted in a voice unlike his own, blushing crimson
and shaking all over. "Go away, both of you!"

Mihail Averyanitch and Hobotov got up and stared at him first with
amazement and then with alarm.

"Go away, both!" Andrey Yefimitch went on shouting. "Stupid people!
Foolish people! I don't want either your friendship or your medicines,
stupid man! Vulgar! Nasty!"

Hobotov and Mihail Averyanitch, looking at each other in bewilderment,
staggered to the door and went out. Andrey Yefimitch snatched up the
bottle of bromide and flung it after them; the bottle broke with a crash
on the door-frame.

"Go to the devil!" he shouted in a tearful voice, running out into the
passage. "To the devil!"
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