Ward No. 6 Page #2

"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.

								

seen that he is longing to say something very important, but, apparently
reflecting that they would not listen, or would not understand him, he
shakes his head impatiently and goes on pacing up and down. But soon the
desire to speak gets the upper hand of every consideration, and he will
let himself go and speak fervently and passionately. His talk is
disordered and feverish like delirium, disconnected, and not always
intelligible, but, on the other hand, something extremely fine may be
felt in it, both in the words and the voice. When he talks you recognize
in him the lunatic and the man. It is difficult to reproduce on paper
his insane talk. He speaks of the baseness of mankind, of violence
trampling on justice, of the glorious life which will one day be upon
earth, of the window-gratings, which remind him every minute of the
stupidity and cruelty of oppressors. It makes a disorderly, incoherent
potpourri of themes old but not yet out of date. II

Some twelve or fifteen years ago an official called Gromov, a highly
respectable and prosperous person, was living in his own house in the
principal street of the town. He had two sons, Sergey and Ivan. When
Sergey was a student in his fourth year he was taken ill with galloping
consumption and died, and his death was, as it were, the first of a
whole series of calamities which suddenly showered on the Gromov family.
Within a week of Sergey's funeral the old father was put on trial for
fraud and misappropriation, and he died of typhoid in the prison
hospital soon afterwards. The house, with all their belongings, was sold
by auction, and Ivan Dmitritch and his mother were left entirely without
means.

Hitherto in his father's lifetime, Ivan Dmitritch, who was studying in
the University of Petersburg, had received an allowance of sixty or
seventy roubles a month, and had had no conception of poverty; now he
had to make an abrupt change in his life. He had to spend his time from
morning to night giving lessons for next to nothing, to work at copying,
and with all that to go hungry, as all his earnings were sent to keep
his mother. Ivan Dmitritch could not stand such a life; he lost heart
and strength, and, giving up the university, went home.

Here, through interest, he obtained the post of teacher in the district
school, but could not get on with his colleagues, was not liked by the
boys, and soon gave up the post. His mother died. He was for six months
without work, living on nothing but bread and water; then he became a
court usher. He kept this post until he was dismissed owing to his
illness.

He had never even in his young student days given the impression of
being perfectly healthy. He had always been pale, thin, and given to
catching cold; he ate little and slept badly. A single glass of wine
went to his head and made him hysterical. He always had a craving for
society, but, owing to his irritable temperament and suspiciousness, he
never became very intimate with anyone, and had no friends. He always
spoke with contempt of his fellow-townsmen, saying that their coarse
ignorance and sleepy animal existence seemed to him loathsome and
horrible. He spoke in a loud tenor, with heat, and invariably either
with scorn and indignation, or with wonder and enthusiasm, and always
with perfect sincerity. Whatever one talked to him about he always
brought it round to the same subject: that life was dull and stifling in
the town; that the townspeople had no lofty interests, but lived a
dingy, meaningless life, diversified by violence, coarse profligacy, and
hypocrisy; that scoundrels were well fed and clothed, while honest men
lived from hand to mouth; that they needed schools, a progressive local
paper, a theatre, public lectures, the co-ordination of the intellectual
elements; that society must see its failings and be horrified. In his
criticisms of people he laid on the colours thick, using only black and
white, and no fine shades; mankind was divided for him into honest men
and scoundrels: there was nothing in between. He always spoke with
passion and enthusiasm of women and of love, but he had never been in
love.

In spite of the severity of his judgments and his nervousness, he was
liked, and behind his back was spoken of affectionately as Vanya. His
innate refinement and readiness to be of service, his good breeding, his
moral purity, and his shabby coat, his frail appearance and family
misfortunes, aroused a kind, warm, sorrowful feeling. Moreover, he was
well educated and well read; according to the townspeople's notions, he
knew everything, and was in their eyes something like a walking
encyclopedia.

He had read a great deal. He would sit at the club, nervously pulling at
his beard and looking through the magazines and books; and from his face
one could see that he was not reading, but devouring the pages without
giving himself time to digest what he read. It must be supposed that
reading was one of his morbid habits, as he fell upon anything that came
into his hands with equal avidity, even last year's newspapers and
calendars. At home he always read lying down. III

One autumn morning Ivan Dmitritch, turning up the collar of his
greatcoat and splashing through the mud, made his way by side-streets
and back lanes to see some artisan, and to collect some payment that was
owing. He was in a gloomy mood, as he always was in the morning. In one
of the side-streets he was met by two convicts in fetters and four
soldiers with rifles in charge of them. Ivan Dmitritch had very often
met convicts before, and they had always excited feelings of compassion
and discomfort in him; but now this meeting made a peculiar, strange
impression on him. It suddenly seemed to him for some reason that he,
too, might be put into fetters and led through the mud to prison like
that. After visiting the artisan, on the way home he met near the post
office a police superintendent of his acquaintance, who greeted him and
walked a few paces along the street with him, and for some reason this
seemed to him suspicious. At home he could not get the convicts or the
soldiers with their rifles out of his head all day, and an unaccountable
inward agitation prevented him from reading or concentrating his mind.
In the evening he did not light his lamp, and at night he could not
sleep, but kept thinking that he might be arrested, put into fetters,
and thrown into prison. He did not know of any harm he had done, and
could be certain that he would never be guilty of murder, arson, or
theft in the future either; but was it not easy to commit a crime by
accident, unconsciously, and was not false witness always possible, and,
indeed, miscarriage of justice? It was not without good reason that the
agelong experience of the simple people teaches that beggary and prison
are ills none can be safe from. A judicial mistake is very possible as
legal proceedings are conducted nowadays, and there is nothing to be
wondered at in it. People who have an official, professional relation to
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes