Anton Chekhov, Ward No. 6 and Other Stories, 1892-1895. Translated from the Russian by Ronald Wilks. Introduction by Douglas Clayton. Penguin Classics, 2002, pb. 353 pp.

This is the second in the Penguin Classics selections of Chekhov’s stories, arranged in chronological order of publication.

It’s apparent in this selection that just a year after the publication of the last story in the previous PC volume, Chekhov was developing into the master of short fiction. There’s more depth in the stories here, and the focus on character, mood and emotional interaction (or lack of it) is sharper.

There’s again not much in the way of plot complications (though of course stuff happens in the stories). As Douglas Clayton says in the introduction:

His notion of plot was different [from the classic realist Russian tradition], since for him what was important was internal evolution of feelings, not any overt set of important events, and his elliptical form focused, not on detail, as the art of, say, Tolstoy had done, but on the detail – a crucial difference. That is to say, by a process of elimination, the details that remain acquire a force they do not have in the copious descriptions typical of the realist novel.

An example of Chekhov’s use of such a detail is the symbolic significance of Julia’s umbrella in the story ‘Three Years’. Her infatuated lover cherishes it because of its physical connection with her; towards the end of the story Julia herself is inspired to reassess her life on catching sight of that same umbrella.

The standout stories here are two of the longest, one of them being ‘Three Years’.  ‘Ward No.6’ reflects Chekhov’s professional experience of clinical practice, and his interest in psychology. It portrays the inmates of the psychiatric wing of a rundown provincial hospital, and the staff employed there.

It’s a grim life. The building is decaying: ‘the roof is rusty, half of the chimney has collapsed, the steps to the door are rotten and overgrown with grass’. The conditions are dirty and primitive: it’s more like a forgotten penal colony than a caring facility. Clayton suggests this is a symbol of the Russian state itself, and I tend to agree.

The prison doctor becomes intrigued by one of the noble-born inmates. They have long, meandering, self-absorbed philosophical disputes, each holding to his own firmly-held beliefs. The doctor’s philosophy serves to justify his inertia, complacency and pessimism. His obsession with this man takes over his life, with startling consequences.

Many of the other stories also deal with characters discontented with their lives, or regretting decisions they have made. They don’t make for very cheerful reading, but provide fascinating insights into a brilliant writer’s artistic progress at the turn of a turbulent century in Russia, with a portent of more upheaval and change to come.