Ward No. 6 and Other Stories

by Anton Chekhov

  ‘What a crazy idea!’ laughed the doctor. ‘So you suppose I’m a spy?’

  ‘Yes, I do suppose! Whether you’re a spy or a doctor sent to test me… it makes no difference…’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to say this, but you really are a strange person!’

  The doctor sat on a stool beside the bed and shook his head reproachfully.

  ‘Let’s suppose you’re right’, he said. ‘Let’s suppose I’m acting treacherously and trying to catch you out, so that I can hand you over to the police. They’d arrest you and put you on trial. But will you be any worse off in court or in prison than here? And would deportation or hard labour in Siberia be any worse than staying cooped up here in this building? I don’t think so… So what are you afraid of?’

  These words visibly affected Gromov… he calmly sat down.

  It was about half past four, the time when Ragin usually paced his rooms and Daryushka asked if it was time for his beer. The weather was calm and bright.

  ‘I went for a stroll after dinner and I thought I’d drop in, as you can see’, said the doctor. ‘Spring is here.’

  ‘What month is it? March?’ Gromov asked.

  ‘Yes, the end of March.’

  ‘Is it very muddy outside?’

  ‘Not very. The garden paths are clear.’

  ‘It would be nice to go for a carriage drive somewhere out of town now’, Gromov said, rubbing his bloodshot eyes as if he were sleepy. ‘And then come back to a warm, cosy study… and let a decent doctor cure my headache… For years now I haven’t lived like a human being. It’s so foul here! Unbearably disgusting!’

  After yesterday evening’s excitement he was tired and sluggish, and he spoke reluctantly. His fingers twitched and clearly he was suffering from a severe headache.

  ‘Between a warm comfortable study and this ward there’s absolutely no difference’, Ragin said. ‘Man finds peace and contentment

  within himself, not outside.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The ordinary man finds good or evil outside himself, that is, in carriage rides or in warm studies. But the thinking man finds them within himself.’

  ‘Go and preach that philosophy in Greece, where it’s warm and where it smells of orange blossom. But it doesn’t suit our climate. To whom was I talking about Diogenes yesterday? Was it you?’

  ‘Yes, it was yesterday, to me.’

  ‘Diogenes didn’t need a study or a warm house. He was warm enough without them. It’s all very well, lying in his little tub and eating oranges and olives! But just let him come and live in Russia – he’ll be longing for a warm room in May, let alone December! He’d be doubled up with the cold.’

  ‘No. Cold, like any other kind of pain, can be ignored. Marcus Aurelius14 said: “Pain is the living concept of pain. Will yourself to change this concept, shrug it off, stop complaining and the pain will go.” It’s true. Sages or any thinking, reflective men are distinguished by this very contempt for suffering. They are always contented and they are surprised by nothing.’

  ‘So, I’m an idiot, because I suffer, because I’m discontented and because I marvel at man’s baseness.’

  ‘You are wrong. If you stopped to think you’d begin to understand how trifling these external things that disturb us really are. You must strive to find the meaning of life, for there lies true bliss.’

  ‘Understand?’ Gromov said, frowning. ‘External? Internal? I’m sorry, but I don’t follow. I know only one thing’, he added, rising and glaring at the doctor. ‘I do know that God created me from warm blood and nerves. Oh yes, sir! And organic tissue, if it bears the spark of life, reacts to all sorts of stimuli. And I do react! I react to pain by weeping or shouting, to baseness with indignation, to vileness with revulsion. In my opinion that’s a fact, that’s what’s called life. The lower the organism the less sensitive it is and the more feebly it reacts to stimuli. The higher it is, the more sensitively and energetically it responds to the external world. How is it you don’t know that? Fancy a doctor not knowing such plain facts! To despise suffering, to be ever contented and never marvel at anything you must sink to his level!’ – and Gromov pointed to the fat, bloated peasant – ‘or you must so harden yourself by suffering that you lose all sensitivity. In other words, you must stop living. I’m sorry, I’m no sage or philosopher’, Gromov continued irritably, ‘and that kind of stuff is beyond me. I’m not much good at arguing.’

  ‘But you argue very well.’

  ‘The Stoics, whom you are travestying, were remarkable men, but their teaching came to a dead end two thousand years ago and hasn’t advanced one inch since. Nor will it ever advance, since it’s not practical or applicable to real life. It has only succeeded with the minority, which spends its time studying and sampling all sorts of creeds, but the majority never understood it. A doctrine that preaches indifference to wealth and creature comforts, contempt for suffering and death, is beyond the comprehension of the vast majority, since this majority never had any knowledge of wealth or creature comforts. And for that majority contempt for suffering would amount to contempt for life itself, since man’s whole being consists of the sensations of cold, hunger, insults, loss and a Hamlet-like fear of death. These sensations are the quintessence of life, which might strike you as tiresome or hateful, but is never to be despised. And so I repeat, the teaching of the Stoics can never have a future. On the other hand, as you can see, from the beginning of the century to the present day, the struggle for survival, sensitivity to pain, responsiveness to stimuli, are all moving forward…’

  Gromov suddenly lost the thread, paused and rubbed his forehead in annoyance.

  ‘I had something important to say, but I’m all muddled up…’ he said. ‘What was I saying? Oh yes! What I wanted to say is this: one of the Stoics sold himself into slavery as a ransom for a friend. So, as you can see for yourself, the Stoic reacted to a stimulus, since so magnanimous a deed as self-annihilation on behalf of one’s neighbour calls for an outraged, feeling heart. Here in prison I’ve forgotten all I ever learned, otherwise I would have remembered something else to illustrate my point. Now, shall we consider Christ? He reacted to reality with weeping, smiling, grieving, being angry, with yearning even. He didn’t go forth to meet suffering with a smile, nor did He despise death, but prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane that He might not drain the cup of woe.’15

  Gromov laughed and sat down.

  ‘Let’s suppose peace and contentment are not outside a man, but within him’, he said. ‘Let’s suppose we should despise suffering and marvel at nothing. But what grounds do you have for preaching this? Are you a sage? A philosopher?’

  ‘No, I’m not a philosopher, but everyone should preach this creed because it’s rational.’

  ‘But I’d like to know why you consider yourself competent to pass judgement on the meaning of life, on contempt for suffering and the rest of it? Have you ever suffered? Do you have any conception of suffering? Tell me, were you beaten as a child?’

  ‘No, my parents were averse to corporal punishment.’

  ‘But I was cruelly beaten by my father. He was a harsh, haemor-rhoidal bureaucrat with a long nose and yellow neck. But let’s talk about you. In your whole life no one so much as laid a finger on you, no one frightened you, no one beat you. You’re as strong as an ox. You grew up under your father’s wing and studied at his expense. You immediately found yourself a nice cushy job. For more than twenty years you lived rent-free, with heating, lighting, servants. At the same time you had the right to work how and as much as you pleased – even to do nothing. By nature you’re idle and feeble, you’ve tried to arrange your life so that nothing disturbs you or forces you to budge from where you are. You delegated your work to your assistant and other scum, while you yourself basked in the warmth and quiet. You piled up money, read the occasional book, sweetened your life with reflections on all kinds of elevated rubbish and became a hard drinker.’ (Gromov glanced at the doctor’s red nose.)
‘In other words, you’ve never seen life, you know nothing about it and are acquainted with reality only in theory. But you despise suffering and are surprised at nothing for one very simple reason: your philosophy of vanity of vanities, the external and internal, contempt for life, suffering and death, understanding the meaning of life, the True Good – that kind of philosophy’s best suited to a Russian layabout. For instance, you see a peasant beating his wife. Why interfere? Let him beat her! They’ll both die sooner or later anyway. Besides, it’s the person who does the beating who injures himself, not his victim. Getting drunk is stupid and indecent, but you’ll die whether you drink or not. A peasant woman comes to you with toothache. What of it? Pain is only our idea of pain and besides, in this world you can’t expect to get away without illness, all of us must die. So, away with you woman and don’t interfere with my thoughts or my vodka! A young man comes for advice: what should he do, how should he live? Someone else would have stopped to think before replying, but you’re always ready with an answer: aspire to discover the meaning of life or the True Good. But what is this fantastic “True Good”? There’s no answer, of course. Here we are imprisoned behind bars, left to rot, tortured, but all that’s beautiful and rational, because there’s absolutely no difference between this ward and a warm comfortable study! A very convenient philosophy – just do nothing, your conscience is clear and you can consider yourself a very wise man… No, my dear sir, that’s not philosophy or reflection or breadth of vision, but idleness, mortification of the flesh and stupefaction…

  ‘Yes!’ Gromov declared, losing his temper again. ‘You despise suffering, but just catch your finger in the door and you’ll bawl your head off!’

  ‘But perhaps I wouldn’t bawl my head off’, Ragin said with a gentle smile.

  ‘Oh yes you would! Suppose you were suddenly paralysed or some bumptious moron used his position and rank to insult you in public and you knew he’d get away with it – then you’d know what it means to tell others to aspire to understanding and the True Good!’

  ‘Highly original!’ Ragin exclaimed, beaming with pleasure and rubbing his hands. ‘I’m agreeably impressed by your love of generalization and the character sketch you’ve just been good enough to draw of me is simply brilliant. Talking to you gives me immense pleasure, I must confess. Well now, you’ve had your say so please be good enough to listen to what I have to say…’

  XI

  This conversation lasted about another hour and clearly made a deep impression on Ragin. He took to visiting the ward every day. He went there in the morning and afternoon, and often darkness would find him in discussion with Gromov. At first Gromov was wary of him, suspected him of evil motives and openly voiced his hostility. But then he grew used to him and his brusque manner became one of indulgent irony.

  A rumour soon spread through the hospital that Dr Ragin was paying daily visits to Ward No. 6. No one – neither the medical assistant, nor Nikita, nor the nurses – could understand why he went there. Why did he sit there for hours on end? What did he talk about? Why didn’t he write any prescriptions? His behaviour struck everyone as most odd. Mikhail Averyanych often failed to find him at home – something that had never happened before – and Daryushka was most anxious, since the doctor did not drink his beer at the usual time and sometimes was even late for dinner.

  One day – it was the end of June – Dr Khobotov went to see Dr Ragin on business. Not finding him at home he went to look for him in the yard, where he was told that the old doctor had gone to see the mental patients. When he entered the building and paused in the lobby, he heard the following conversation:

  ‘We’ll never see eye to eye and you’ll never succeed in converting me to your faith’, Gromov was saying irritably. ‘You know nothing of reality, you’ve never suffered, you’ve only fed on the sufferings of others, like a leech. But I’ve suffered constantly from the day I was born. Therefore I’m telling you bluntly that I consider myself superior to you, more competent in every way. It’s not for you to teach me!’

  ‘I certainly would not presume to convert you to my faith’, Ragin said softly, regretting the other’s reluctance to understand him. ‘But that’s not the point, my friend. The point isn’t that you have suffered, whereas I haven’t. Suffering and joy are transitory; let’s forget them – and good luck to them! The point is, you and I are thinking men; we see ourselves as people who are capable of thinking and arguing, and this creates a bond between us, however much our views may differ. If you only knew, my friend, how weary I am of this universal idiocy, this mediocrity, this obtuseness. If you only knew the joy it gives me every time I have a talk with you! You’re an intelligent man and I thoroughly enjoy your company.’

  Khobotov opened the door an inch or so and peered into the ward: Gromov in his night-cap and Dr Ragin were sitting side by side on the bed. The lunatic was pulling faces, shuddering and convulsively clutching his smock. The doctor sat quite still, his head bowed, and his face was flushed, helpless and sad. Khobotov shrugged his shoulders, grinned and exchanged glances with Nikita, who also shrugged his shoulders.

  Next day Khobotov and the medical assistant went to the building. Both of them stood in the lobby and listened.

  ‘Seems like the old boy’s gone off his rocker!’ Khobotov remarked as he left.

  ‘Lord have mercy on us sinners!’ sighed the grandiose Sergey Sergeich, carefully skirting the puddles to avoid soiling his brightly polished boots. ‘I must confess, my dear Khobotov, I’ve been expecting this for some time!’

  XII

  From now on Ragin began to notice a strange atmosphere of mystery around him. Whenever he met orderlies, nurses and patients they would give him quizzical looks and whisper among themselves. Whenever he smilingly went up to Masha, the superintendent’s little daughter (whom he loved meeting in the hospital garden), to stroke her head, she would run away from him. Instead of his usual ‘perfectly true!’ when listening to him, Mikhail Averyanych the postmaster would become strangely embarrassed, mutter ‘Oh, yes… yes’ and look sadly and pensively at him. For some reason he now advised his friend to give up vodka and beer, but he never told him this straight out, but by dropping gentle hints – he was a tactful man – and by telling him stories, of the battalion commander (an excellent fellow), or of the regimental chaplain (a first-class chap), who drank too much and became ill. But once they stopped they became quite well again. Once or twice Ragin’s colleague Khobotov called. He too advised him to give up alcohol and without giving any reason recommended that he take potassium bromide.

  In August Ragin received a letter from the mayor, asking him to come and see him on a very important matter. Arriving at the town hall at the appointed time, Ragin found there the district military commander, the superintendent of the county high school, a member of the town council, Khobotov, and a corpulent, fair-haired gentleman who was introduced as a doctor. This doctor, who had an unpronounceable Polish name, lived on a stud farm about twenty miles away and just happened to be passing through.

  ‘Here’s a little memo that’s your cup of tea’, the town councillor said, turning to Ragin after all the others had greeted each other and sat down at the table. ‘You see, Dr Khobotov says there ain’t much room for a dispensary in the main block and that it ought to be moved to one of the outbuildings. Of course, it ain’t no problem moving it, but the main reason is that the place needs repairing.’

  ‘Yes, it certainly will have to be repaired’, Ragin said, after a pause for thought. ‘Now, if the corner building is fitted out as a dispensary, then at least five hundred roubles will have to be spent, I suppose. Now, that’s unproductive expenditure.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘Ten years ago’, Ragin said quietly, ‘I had the honour to report that this hospital, in its present state, was a luxury the town could ill afford. It was built in the forties, but then more funds were available. This town spends too much on unnecessary buildings and superfluous staff. I think tha
t two model hospitals could be maintained on the same money – if the system were different.’

  ‘Oh, so let’s have a new system then’, the councillor said briskly.

  ‘I have already had the honour of submitting my report that the medical department should be under the supervision of the Rural District Council.’

  ‘Yes, transfer the money to the RDC and they’ll put it in their pockets!’ laughed the fair-haired doctor.

  ‘That’s the way things are’, agreed the councillor and he too laughed.

  ‘We must be fair’, Ragin said, giving the fair doctor a feeble, vacant look.

  Again a silence. Tea was served. The military commander, highly embarrassed for some reason, touched Ragin’s hand across the table and said:

  ‘You’ve completely forgotten us, doctor! Then you always were like a monk. You don’t play cards and you don’t care for women. I’m afraid we must bore you here.’

  Everyone began to speak of how boring it was for any decent, self-respecting man to live in that town. No theatre, no concerts and at the last club dance there were about twenty ladies and only two men. The young men never danced, but crowded around the bar the whole time or played cards. Without directly looking at anyone, slowly and quietly, Ragin told them what a dreadful pity it was that the townspeople wasted their vital energy, their hearts and minds on cards and idle gossip, that they neither cared nor knew how to pass the time in interesting conversation, in reading, or in enjoying the pleasures that only the mind provides. Intellect alone was interesting and worthy of note, all the rest was petty and squalid. Khobotov listened to his colleague attentively and suddenly asked:

  ‘What’s today’s date?’

  Receiving no reply, he and the fair doctor then began to ask Ragin – in the tone of examiners aware of their own incompetence – what day of the week it was, how many days in a year and was it true that there was a remarkable prophet in Ward No. 6.