Ward No. 6 Page #6

"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.

								

woman to take the child away.

He was soon wearied by the timidity of the patients and their
incoherence, by the proximity of the pious Sergey Sergeyitch, by the
portraits on the walls, and by his own questions which he had asked over
and over again for twenty years. And he would go away after seeing five
or six patients. The rest would be seen by his assistant in his absence.

With the agreeable thought that, thank God, he had no private practice
now, and that no one would interrupt him, Andrey Yefimitch sat down to
the table immediately on reaching home and took up a book. He read a
great deal and always with enjoyment. Half his salary went on buying
books, and of the six rooms that made up his abode three were heaped up
with books and old magazines. He liked best of all works on history and
philosophy; the only medical publication to which he subscribed was The
Doctor, of which he always read the last pages first. He would always go
on reading for several hours without a break and without being weary. He
did not read as rapidly and impulsively as Ivan Dmitritch had done in
the past, but slowly and with concentration, often pausing over a
passage which he liked or did not find intelligible. Near the books
there always stood a decanter of vodka, and a salted cucumber or a
pickled apple lay beside it, not on a plate, but on the baize table-
cloth. Every half-hour he would pour himself out a glass of vodka and
drink it without taking his eyes off the book. Then without looking at
it he would feel for the cucumber and bite off a bit.

At three o'clock he would go cautiously to the kitchen door; cough, and
say, "Daryushka, what about dinner? . ."

After his dinner--a rather poor and untidily served one--Andrey Yefimitch
would walk up and down his rooms with his arms folded, thinking. The
clock would strike four, then five, and still he would be walking up and
down thinking. Occasionally the kitchen door would creak, and the red
and sleepy face of Daryushka would appear.

"Andrey Yefimitch, isn't it time for you to have your beer?" she would
ask anxiously.

"No, it's not time yet . . ." he would answer. "I'll wait a little . . .
. I'll wait a little. . ."

Towards the evening the postmaster, Mihail Averyanitch, the only man in
town whose society did not bore Andrey Yefimitch, would come in. Mihail
Averyanitch had once been a very rich landowner, and had served in the
calvary, but had come to ruin, and was forced by poverty to take a job
in the post office late in life. He had a hale and hearty appearance,
luxuriant grey whiskers, the manners of a well-bred man, and a loud,
pleasant voice. He was good-natured and emotional, but hot-tempered.
When anyone in the post office made a protest, expressed disagreement,
or even began to argue, Mihail Averyanitch would turn crimson, shake all
over, and shout in a voice of thunder, "Hold your tongue!" so that the
post office had long enjoyed the reputation of an institution which it
was terrible to visit. Mihail Averyanitch liked and respected Andrey
Yefimitch for his culture and the loftiness of his soul; he treated the
other inhabitants of the town superciliously, as though they were his
subordinates.

"Here I am," he would say, going in to Andrey Yefimitch. "Good evening,
my dear fellow! I'll be bound, you are getting sick of me, aren't you?"

"On the contrary, I am delighted," said the doctor. "I am always glad to
see you."

The friends would sit on the sofa in the study and for some time would
smoke in silence.

"Daryushka, what about the beer?" Andrey Yefimitch would say.

They would drink their first bottle still in silence, the doctor
brooding and Mihail Averyanitch with a gay and animated face, like a man
who has something very interesting to tell. The doctor was always the
one to begin the conversation.

"What a pity," he would say quietly and slowly, not looking his friend
in the face (he never looked anyone in the face)--"what a great pity it
is that there are no people in our town who are capable of carrying on
intelligent and interesting conversation, or care to do so. It is an
immense privation for us. Even the educated class do not rise above
vulgarity; the level of their development, I assure you, is not a bit
higher than that of the lower orders."

"Perfectly true. I agree."

"You know, of course," the doctor went on quietly and deliberately,
"that everything in this world is insignificant and uninteresting except
the higher spiritual manifestations of the human mind. Intellect draws a
sharp line between the animals and man, suggests the divinity of the
latter, and to some extent even takes the place of the immortality which
does not exist. Consequently the intellect is the only possible source
of enjoyment. We see and hear of no trace of intellect about us, so we
are deprived of enjoyment. We have books, it is true, but that is not at
all the same as living talk and converse. If you will allow me to make a
not quite apt comparison: books are the printed score, while talk is the
singing."

"Perfectly true."

A silence would follow. Daryushka would come out of the kitchen and with
an expression of blank dejection would stand in the doorway to listen,
with her face propped on her fist.

"Eh!" Mihail Averyanitch would sigh. "To expect intelligence of this
generation!"

And he would describe how wholesome, entertaining, and interesting life
had been in the past. How intelligent the educated class in Russia used
to be, and what lofty ideas it had of honour and friendship; how they
used to lend money without an IOU, and it was thought a disgrace not to
give a helping hand to a comrade in need; and what campaigns, what
adventures, what skirmishes, what comrades, what women! And the
Caucasus, what a marvellous country! The wife of a battalion commander,
a queer woman, used to put on an officer's uniform and drive off into
the mountains in the evening, alone, without a guide. It was said that
she had a love affair with some princeling in the native village.

"Queen of Heaven, Holy Mother..." Daryushka would sigh.

"And how we drank! And how we ate! And what desperate liberals we were!"

Andrey Yefimitch would listen without hearing; he was musing as he
sipped his beer.

"I often dream of intellectual people and conversation with them," he
said suddenly, interrupting Mihail Averyanitch. "My father gave me an
excellent education, but under the influence of the ideas of the sixties
made me become a doctor. I believe if I had not obeyed him then, by now
I should have been in the very centre of the intellectual movement. Most
likely I should have become a member of some university. Of course,
intellect, too, is transient and not eternal, but you know why I cherish
a partiality for it. Life is a vexatious trap; when a thinking man
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