Ward No. 6 Page #16

"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.

								


When his guests were gone Andrey Yefimitch lay down on the sofa,
trembling as though in a fever, and went on for a long while repeating:
"Stupid people! Foolish people!"

When he was calmer, what occurred to him first of all was the thought
that poor Mihail Averyanitch must be feeling fearfully ashamed and
depressed now, and that it was all dreadful. Nothing like this had ever
happened to him before. Where was his intelligence and his tact? Where
was his comprehension of things and his philosophical indifference?

The doctor could not sleep all night for shame and vexation with
himself, and at ten o'clock next morning he went to the post office and
apologized to the postmaster.

"We won't think again of what has happened," Mihail Averyanitch, greatly
touched, said with a sigh, warmly pressing his hand. "Let bygones be
bygones. Lyubavkin," he suddenly shouted so loud that all the postmen
and other persons present started, "hand a chair; and you wait," he
shouted to a peasant woman who was stretching out a registered letter to
him through the grating. "Don't you see that I am busy? We will not
remember the past," he went on, affectionately addressing Andrey
Yefimitch; "sit down, I beg you, my dear fellow."

For a minute he stroked his knees in silence, and then said:

"I have never had a thought of taking offence. Illness is no joke, I
understand. Your attack frightened the doctor and me yesterday, and we
had a long talk about you afterwards. My dear friend, why won't you
treat your illness seriously? You can't go on like this . . . . Excuse
me speaking openly as a friend," whispered Mihail Averyanitch. "You live
in the most unfavourable surroundings, in a crowd, in uncleanliness, no
one to look after you, no money for proper treatment. . . . My dear
friend, the doctor and I implore you with all our hearts, listen to our
advice: go into the hospital! There you will have wholesome food and
attendance and treatment. Though, between ourselves, Yevgeny Fyodoritch
is mauvais ton, yet he does understand his work, you can fully rely upon
him. He has promised me he will look after you."

Andrey Yefimitch was touched by the postmaster's genuine sympathy and
the tears which suddenly glittered on his cheeks.

"My honoured friend, don't believe it!" he whispered, laying his hand on
his heart; "don't believe them. It's all a sham. My illness is only that
in twenty years I have only found one intelligent man in the whole town,
and he is mad. I am not ill at all, it's simply that I have got into an
enchanted circle which there is no getting out of. I don't care; I am
ready for anything."

"Go into the hospital, my dear fellow."

"I don't care if it were into the pit."

"Give me your word, my dear man, that you will obey Yevgeny Fyodoritch
in everything."

"Certainly I will give you my word. But I repeat, my honoured friend, I
have got into an enchanted circle. Now everything, even the genuine
sympathy of my friends, leads to the same thing--to my ruin. I am going
to my ruin, and I have the manliness to recognize it."

"My dear fellow, you will recover."

"What's the use of saying that?" said Andrey Yefimitch, with irritation.
"There are few men who at the end of their lives do not experience what
I am experiencing now. When you are told that you have something such as
diseased kidneys or enlarged heart, and you begin being treated for it,
or are told you are mad or a criminal--that is, in fact, when people
suddenly turn their attention to you--you may be sure you have got into
an enchanted circle from which you will not escape. You will try to
escape and make things worse. You had better give in, for no human
efforts can save you. So it seems to me."

Meanwhile the public was crowding at the grating. That he might not be
in their way, Andrey Yefimitch got up and began to take leave. Mihail
Averyanitch made him promise on his honour once more, and escorted him
to the outer door.

Towards evening on the same day Hobotov, in his sheepskin and his high
top-boots, suddenly made his appearance, and said to Andrey Yefimitch in
a tone as though nothing had happened the day before:

"I have come on business, colleague. I have come to ask you whether you
would not join me in a consultation. Eh?"

Thinking that Hobotov wanted to distract his mind with an outing, or
perhaps really to enable him to earn something, Andrey Yefimitch put on
his coat and hat, and went out with him into the street. He was glad of
the opportunity to smooth over his fault of the previous day and to be
reconciled, and in his heart thanked Hobotov, who did not even allude to
yesterday's scene and was evidently sparing him. One would never have
expected such delicacy from this uncultured man.

"Where is your invalid?" asked Andrey Yefimitch.

"In the hospital. . . . I have long wanted to show him to you. A very
interesting case."

They went into the hospital yard, and going round the main building,
turned towards the lodge where the mental cases were kept, and all this,
for some reason, in silence. When they went into the lodge Nikita as
usual jumped up and stood at attention.

"One of the patients here has a lung complication." Hobotov said in an
undertone, going into the yard with Andrey Yefimitch. "You wait here,
I'll be back directly. I am going for a stethoscope."

And he went away. XVII

It was getting dusk. Ivan Dmitritch was lying on his bed with his face
thrust unto his pillow; the paralytic was sitting motionless, crying
quietly and moving his lips. The fat peasant and the former sorter were
asleep. It was quiet.

Andrey Yefimitch sat down on Ivan Dmitritch's bed and waited. But half
an hour passed, and instead of Hobotov, Nikita came into the ward with a
dressing-gown, some underlinen, and a pair of slippers in a heap on his
arm.

"Please change your things, your honour," he said softly. "Here is your
bed; come this way," he added, pointing to an empty bedstead which had
obviously recently been brought into the ward. "It's all right; please
God, you will recover."

Andrey Yefimitch understood it all. Without saying a word he crossed to
the bed to which Nikita pointed and sat down; seeing that Nikita was
standing waiting, he undressed entirely and he felt ashamed. Then he put
on the hospital clothes; the drawers were very short, the shirt was
long, and the dressing-gown smelt of smoked fish.

"Please God, you will recover," repeated Nikita, and he gathered up
Andrey Yefimitch's clothes into his arms, went out, and shut the door
after him.

"No matter . . ." thought Andrey Yefimitch, wrapping himself in his
dressing-gown in a shamefaced way and feeling that he looked like a
convict in his new costume. "It's no matter. . . . It does not matter
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