The fifth and last inhabitant of Ward No. 6 is a man of the artisan class who had once been a sorter in the post office, a thinnish, fair little man with a good-natured but rather sly face.  To judge from the clear, cheerful look in his calm and intelligent eyes, he has some pleasant idea in his mind, and has some very important and agreeable secret.  He has under his pillow and under his mattress something that he never shows anyone, not from fear of its being taken from him and stolen, but from modesty.  Sometimes he goes to the window, and turning his back to his companions, puts something on his breast, and bending his head, looks at it; if you go up to him at such a moment, he is overcome with confusion and snatches something off his breast.  But it is not difficult to guess his secret.

“Congratulate me,” he often says to Ivan Dmitritch; “I have been presented with the Stanislav order of the second degree with the star.  The second degree with the star is only given to foreigners, but for some reason they want to make an exception for me,” he says with a smile, shrugging his shoulders in perplexity.  “That I must confess I did not expect.”

“I don’t understand anything about that,” Ivan Dmitritch replies morosely.

“But do you know what I shall attain to sooner or later?” the former sorter persists, screwing up his eyes slyly.  “I shall certainly get the Swedish ‘Polar Star.’  That’s an order it is worth working for, a white cross with a black ribbon.  It’s very beautiful.”

Probably in no other place is life so monotonous as in this ward.  In the morning the patients, except the paralytic and the fat peasant, wash in the entry at a big tab and wipe themselves with the skirts of their dressing-gowns; after that they drink tea out of tin mugs which Nikita brings them out of the main building.  Everyone is allowed one mugful.  At midday they have soup made out of sour cabbage and boiled grain, in the evening their supper consists of grain left from dinner.  In the intervals they lie down, sleep, look out of window, and walk from one corner to the other.  And so every day.  Even the former sorter always talks of the same orders.

Fresh faces are rarely seen in Ward No. 6.  The doctor has not taken in any new mental cases for a long time, and the people who are fond of visiting lunatic asylums are few in this world.  Once every two months Semyon Lazaritch, the barber, appears in the ward.  How he cuts the patients’ hair, and how Nikita helps him to do it, and what a trepidation the lunatics are always thrown into by the arrival of the drunken, smiling barber, we will not describe.

No one even looks into the ward except the barber.  The patients are condemned to see day after day no one but Nikita.

A rather strange rumour has, however, been circulating in the hospital of late.

It is rumoured that the doctor has begun to visit Ward No. 6.

V