Alexander Solzhenitsyn
PART ONE
Not cancer at all
The Cancer Ward also wore number thirteen. Pavel Nikolaevich Rusanov never was and could not be superstitious, but something sank in him when they wrote in his direction: “Thirteenth Corps.” I wasn’t smart enough to call the thirteenth something leaky or intestinal.
However, in the entire republic they could not help him anywhere except this clinic.
But I don’t have cancer, doctor? I don't have cancer, do I? - Pavel Nikolaevich asked hopefully, lightly touching his right side neck its evil tumor, growing almost every day, and the outside is still covered with harmless white skin.
“No, no, of course not,” Dr. Dontsova reassured him for the tenth time, scribbling out pages in the medical history in her flourishing handwriting. When she wrote, she put on glasses - rounded rectangular ones, and as soon as she stopped writing, she took them off. She was no longer young, and she looked pale and very tired.
This was at an outpatient appointment a few days ago. Appointed to the cancer department even for an outpatient appointment, the patients no longer slept at night. And Dontsova ordered Pavel Nikolaevich to lie down as quickly as possible.
Not only the disease itself, not foreseen, not prepared, which came like a squall in two weeks on the careless happy person, - but what depressed Pavel Nikolaevich now no less than the illness was that he had to go to this clinic on a general basis, he no longer remembered how he was treated. They started calling Evgeny Semyonovich, and Shendyapin, and Ulmasbaev, and they, in turn, called and found out the possibilities, and whether there was a special ward in this clinic or whether it was possible to at least temporarily organize a small room as a special ward. But due to the cramped conditions here, nothing came of it.
And the only thing we managed to agree on through the head doctor was that it would be possible to bypass the emergency room, the general bathhouse and the changing room.
And in their little blue Muscovite, Yura drove his father and mother to the very steps of the Thirteenth Building.
Despite the frost, two women in washed cotton robes stood on the open stone porch - they shivered, but stood.
Starting with these unkempt robes, everything here was unpleasant for Pavel Nikolaevich: the cement floor of the porch, too worn out by feet; dull door handles, grasped by the hands of the sick; a lobby of people waiting with peeling paint on the floor, high olive panel walls (the olive color seemed dirty) and large slatted benches on which patients who had come from far away did not fit and sat on the floor - Uzbeks in quilted cotton robes, old Uzbek women in white scarves, and young - in purple, red and green, and everyone in boots and galoshes. One Russian guy was lying, occupying an entire bench, with his coat unbuttoned and hanging to the floor, exhausted himself, his stomach swollen, and constantly screaming in pain. And these screams deafened Pavel Nikolaevich and hurt him so much, as if the guy was screaming not about himself, but about him.
Pavel Nikolaevich turned pale to the lips, stopped and whispered:
Mouth guard! I'll die here. No need. We'll be back.
Kapitolina Matveevna took his hand firmly and squeezed:
Pashenka! Where will we return?.. And what next?
Well, maybe things will work out somehow with Moscow...
Kapitolina Matveevna turned to her husband with her wide head, still broadened by lush copper-cut curls:
Pashenka! Moscow is maybe another two weeks, maybe it won’t be possible. How can you wait? After all, every morning it is bigger!
His wife squeezed him tightly at the wrist, conveying cheerfulness. In civil and official matters, Pavel Nikolayevich himself was unwavering - the more pleasant and calm it was for him to always rely on his wife in family matters: she decided everything important quickly and correctly.
And the guy on the bench was torn and screaming!
Maybe the doctors will agree to go home... We'll pay... - Pavel Nikolaevich hesitantly denied.
Pasik! - the wife inspired, suffering together with her husband, - you know, I myself am always the first for this: to call a person and pay. But we found out: these doctors don’t come, they don’t take money. And they have equipment. It is forbidden…
Pavel Nikolaevich himself understood that it was impossible. He said this just in case.
By agreement with the head physician of the oncology dispensary, the older sister was supposed to be waiting for them at two o'clock in the afternoon here, at the bottom of the stairs, down which the patient was now carefully descending on crutches. But, of course, the older sister was not there, and her closet under the stairs was locked.
You can't come to an agreement with anyone! - Kapitolina Matveevna flushed. - Why do they only get paid a salary?
As she was, hugged on the shoulders by two silver foxes, Kapitolina Matveevna walked along the corridor, where it was written: “Entry is prohibited in outerwear.”
Pavel Nikolaevich remained standing in the lobby. Fearfully, with a slight tilt of his head to the right, he felt his tumor between the collarbone and jaw. It seemed that in the half hour since he had been home in last time I looked at her in the mirror, wrapping my muffler around her - in those half an hour she seemed to have grown even more. Pavel Nikolaevich felt weak and wanted to sit down. But the benches seemed dirty and we also had to ask some woman in a headscarf with a greasy bag on the floor between her legs to move. Even from a distance, the stinking smell from this bag did not seem to reach Pavel Nikolaevich.
And when will our population learn to travel with clean, neat suitcases! (However, now, with the tumor, it was no longer the same.)
Suffering from the screams of that guy and from everything that his eyes saw, and from everything that entered through his nose, Rusanov stood, slightly leaning against the ledge of the wall. A man came in from outside, carrying in front of him a half-liter jar with a sticker, almost full of yellow liquid. He carried the can not hiding it, but proudly raising it, like a mug of beer standing in line. Just before Pavel Nikolaevich, almost handing him this jar, the man stopped, wanted to ask, but looked at the seal's hat and turned away, looking further, to the patient on crutches:
Honey! Where should I take this, eh?
The legless man showed him the laboratory door.
Pavel Nikolaevich simply felt sick.
The outer door opened again - and a sister came in wearing only a white robe, not pretty, too long-faced. She immediately noticed Pavel Nikolaevich and guessed, and approached him.
“Sorry,” she said through a puff, blushing to the color of her painted lips, she was in such a hurry. - Excuse me, please! Have you been waiting for me for a long time? They brought medicine there, I take it.
Pavel Nikolaevich wanted to answer caustically, but restrained himself. He was glad that the wait was over. Yura came up, carrying a suitcase and a bag of groceries, in just a suit, without a hat, as he was driving a car - very calm, with a swaying high light forelock.
Let's go! - the older sister led to her closet under the stairs. - I know, Nizamutdin Bakhramovich told me, you will be in your underwear and brought your pajamas, just not yet worn, right?
From the shop.
This is mandatory, otherwise disinfection is needed, you understand? This is where you will change clothes.
She opened the plywood door and turned on the light. There was no window in the closet with a sloping ceiling, but there were many colored pencil charts hanging.
Yura silently carried his suitcase there, went out, and Pavel Nikolaevich went in to change clothes. The older sister rushed to go somewhere else during this time, but then Kapitolina Matveevna approached:
Girl, are you in such a hurry?
Yes a-a little...
What is your name?
What a strange name. Are you not Russian?
You made us wait.
Excuse me, please. I'm receiving there now...
So listen, Mita, I want you to know. My husband... is an honored man, a very valuable worker. His name is Pavel Nikolaevich.
Pavel Nikolaevich, okay, I'll remember.
You see, he’s generally used to being taken care of, but now he has such a serious illness. Is it possible to arrange for a permanent nurse to be on duty around him?
Mita's worried, restless face became even more worried. She shook her head.
In addition to operating rooms for sixty people, we have three nurses on duty during the day. And at night two.
Well, you see! You'll die here, scream - they won't come.
Why do you think so? They approach everyone.
To “everyone”!.. If she said “to everyone”, then O explain to her?
Besides, are your sisters changing?
Yes, twelve hours.
This impersonal treatment is terrible!.. I would sit with my daughter in shifts! I would invite a permanent nurse at my own expense, but they tell me that this is not possible...?
I think it's impossible. No one has done this before. There’s not even room to put a chair in the room.
My God, I can imagine what kind of room this is! You still need to see this room! How many beds are there?
Composition
In “Cancer Ward,” using the example of one hospital ward, Solzhenitsyn depicts the life of an entire state. The author manages to convey the socio-psychological situation of the era, its originality on such a seemingly small material as an image of the life of several cancer patients who, by the will of fate, found themselves in the same hospital building. All heroes are not easy different people With different characters; each of them is a carrier certain types consciousness generated by the era of totalitarianism. It is also important that all the heroes are extremely sincere in expressing their feelings and defending their beliefs, as they are in the face of death.
Oleg Kostoglotov, a former prisoner, independently came to reject the postulates of the official ideology. Shulubin, Russian intellectual, participant October revolution, gave up, outwardly accepting public morals, and doomed himself to a quarter of a century of mental torment. Rusanov appears as the “world leader” of the nomenklatura regime. But, always following the party line, he often uses the power given to him for personal purposes, confusing them with public interests. The beliefs of these heroes are already fully formed and are repeatedly tested during discussions. The remaining heroes are mainly representatives of the passive majority who have accepted official morality, but they are either indifferent to it or do not defend it so zealously. The entire work represents a kind of dialogue in consciousness, reflecting almost the entire spectrum of life ideas characteristic of the era. The external well-being of a system does not mean that it is devoid of internal contradictions. It is in this dialogue that the author sees a potential opportunity to cure the cancer that has affected the entire society.
Born in the same era, the heroes of the story do different things life choice. True, not all of them realize that the choice has already been made. Efrem Podduev, who lived his life the way he wanted, suddenly understands, turning to Tolstoy’s books, the entire emptiness of his existence. But this hero’s insight is too late. In essence, the problem of choice faces every person every second, but out of many solution options, only one is correct, out of all life paths only one to my heart. Demka, a teenager at a crossroads in life, realizes the need for choice. At school he absorbed the official ideology, but in the ward he felt its ambiguity, having heard the very contradictory, sometimes mutually exclusive statements of his neighbors. Clash of positions different heroes occurs in endless disputes affecting both everyday and existential problems. Kostoglotov is a fighter, he is tireless, he literally pounces on his opponents, expressing everything that has become painful over the years of forced silence. Oleg easily fends off any objections, since his arguments are hard-won by himself, and the thoughts of his opponents are most often inspired by the dominant ideology. Oleg does not accept even a timid attempt at compromise on the part of Rusanov. And Pavel Nikolaevich and his like-minded people are unable to object to Kostoglotov, because they are not ready to defend their convictions themselves. The state has always done this for them.
Rusanov lacks arguments: he is used to being aware of his own rightness, relying on the support of the system and personal power, but here everyone is equal in the face of the inevitable and near death and in front of each other. Kostoglotov’s advantage in these disputes is also determined by the fact that he speaks from the position of a living person, while Rusanov defends the point of view of a soulless system. Shulubin only occasionally expresses his thoughts, defending the ideas of “moral socialism.” It is precisely the question of the morality of the existing system that all the disputes in the House ultimately revolve around. From Shulubin’s conversation with Vadim Zatsyrko, a talented young scientist, we learn that, according to Vadim, science is only responsible for the creation material goods, A moral aspect the scientist should not worry. Demka’s conversation with Asya reveals the essence of the education system: from childhood, students are taught to think and act “like everyone else.” The state, with the help of schools, teaches insincerity and instills in schoolchildren distorted ideas about morality and ethics. In the mouth of Avietta, Rusanov’s daughter, an aspiring poetess, the author puts official ideas about the tasks of literature: literature must embody the image of a “happy tomorrow”, in which all the hopes of today are realized. Talent and writing skills, naturally, cannot be compared with the ideological demand. The main thing for a writer is the absence of “ideological dislocations,” so literature becomes a craft serving the primitive tastes of the masses. The ideology of the system does not imply the creation moral values, for which Shulubin, who betrayed his convictions, but did not lose faith in them, yearns. He understands that a system with a shifted scale life values not viable. Rusanov’s stubborn self-confidence, Shulubin’s deep doubts, Kostoglotov’s intransigence - different levels personality development under totalitarianism. All these life positions dictated by the conditions of the system, which thus not only forms an iron support for itself from people, but also creates conditions for potential self-destruction.
All three heroes are victims of the system, since it deprived Rusanov of the ability to think independently, forced Shulubin to abandon his beliefs, and took away freedom from Kostoglotov. Any system that oppresses an individual disfigures the souls of all its subjects, even those who serve it faithfully. 3. Thus, the fate of a person, according to Solzhenitsyn, depends on the choice that the person himself makes. Totalitarianism exists not only thanks to tyrants, but also thanks to the passive and indifferent majority, the “crowd”. Only choice true values can lead to victory over this monstrous totalitarian system. And everyone has the opportunity to make such a choice.
The Cancer Ward also wore number thirteen. Pavel Nikolaevich Rusanov never was and could never be superstitious, but something sank in him when
In his direction they wrote: “Thirteenth Corps.” I wasn’t smart enough to call the thirteenth something leaky or intestinal.
However, in the entire republic they could not help him anywhere except this clinic.
- But I don’t have cancer, doctor? I don't have cancer, do I? - Pavel Nikolaevich asked hopefully, lightly touching the right side of his neck
Its evil tumor, growing almost every day, and on the outside still covered with harmless white skin.
“No, no, of course not,” Dr. Dontsova reassured him for the tenth time, scribbling out pages in the medical history in her flourishing handwriting. When
She wrote, she put on glasses - rounded rectangular ones, as soon as she stopped writing, she took them off. She was no longer young, and she looked
Pale, very tired.
This was at an outpatient appointment, a few days ago. Appointed to the cancer department even for an outpatient appointment, the patients no longer slept at night. A
Dontsova ordered Pavel Nikolaevich to lie down as quickly as possible.
Not only the disease itself, not foreseen, not prepared, which came like a squall in two weeks on a carefree happy person - but
Pavel Nikolaevich was now no less depressed by the illness because he had to go to this clinic on a general basis, he no longer remembered how he was treated
When. They began to call Evgeniy Semenovich, and Shendyapin, and Ulmasbaev, and they in turn called, found out the possibilities, and whether this
The clinic has special wards or it is impossible to at least temporarily organize a small room as a special ward. But due to the cramped conditions here, nothing came of it.
And the only thing we managed to agree on through the head doctor was that it would be possible to bypass the emergency room, the general bathhouse and the changing room.
And in their little blue Muscovite, Yura drove his father and mother to the very steps of the Thirteenth Building.
Despite the frost, two women in washed cotton robes stood on the open stone porch - they shivered, but stood.
Starting with these unkempt robes, everything here was unpleasant for Pavel Nikolaevich: the cement floor of the porch, too worn out by feet; dull
Door handles grasped by the hands of the sick; waiting lobby with peeling floor paint, high olive panel walls (olive color and
It seemed dirty) and large slatted benches, on which patients who had come from afar - Uzbeks in quilted cotton wool - could not fit and sat on the floor.
Robes, old Uzbek women in white scarves, and young ones in purple, red and green, and all in boots and galoshes. One Russian guy was lying, taking
The whole bench, with his coat unbuttoned and hanging to the floor, exhausted himself, with a swollen belly and constantly screaming in pain. And these screams of his
They stunned Pavel Nikolaevich and hurt him so much, as if the guy was shouting not about himself, but about him.
Pavel Nikolaevich turned pale to the lips, stopped and whispered:
- Mouth guard! I'll die here. No need. We'll be back.
Kapitolina Matveevna took his hand firmly and squeezed:
- Pashenka! Where will we return?.. And what next?
- Well, maybe things will work out somehow with Moscow... Kapitolina Matveevna turned to her husband with her whole broad head, even wider
Lush copper cut curls:
- Pashenka! Moscow is maybe another two weeks, maybe it won’t be possible.
1
The Cancer Ward also wore number thirteen. Pavel Nikolaevich Rusanov never was and could not be superstitious, but something sank in him when they wrote in his direction: “Thirteenth Corps.” I wasn’t smart enough to call the thirteenth something leaky or intestinal.
However, in the entire republic they could not help him anywhere except this clinic.
But I don’t have cancer, doctor? I don't have cancer, do I? - Pavel Nikolaevich asked hopefully, lightly touching his evil tumor on the right side of his neck, growing almost every day, and on the outside still covered with harmless white skin.
“No, no, of course not,” Dr. Dontsova reassured him for the tenth time, scribbling out pages in the medical history in her flourishing handwriting. When she wrote, she put on glasses - rounded rectangular ones, and as soon as she stopped writing, she took them off. She was no longer young, and she looked pale and very tired.
This was at an outpatient appointment a few days ago. Appointed to the cancer department even for an outpatient appointment, the patients no longer slept at night. And Dontsova ordered Pavel Nikolaevich to lie down as quickly as possible.
Not only the disease itself, not foreseen, not prepared, which came like a squall in two weeks on a carefree happy person, but no less than the disease, Pavel Nikolaevich was now oppressed by the fact that he had to go to this clinic on a general basis, how he was treated, he no longer remembered when . They began to call Evgeniy Semenovich, and Shendyapin, and Ulmasbaev, and they in turn called, found out the possibilities, and whether there was a special ward in this clinic or whether it was possible to at least temporarily organize a small room as a special ward. But due to the cramped conditions here, nothing came of it.
And the only thing we managed to agree on through the head doctor was that it would be possible to bypass the emergency room, the general bathhouse and the changing room.
And in their blue Muscovite, Yura drove his father and mother to the very steps of the Thirteenth Building.
Despite the frost, two women in washed cotton robes stood on the open stone porch - they shivered, but stood.
Starting with these unkempt robes, everything here was unpleasant for Pavel Nikolaevich: the cement floor of the porch, too worn out by feet; dull door handles, grasped by the hands of the sick; a lobby of people waiting with peeling paint on the floor, high olive panel walls (the olive color seemed dirty) and large slatted benches on which patients who had come from far away did not fit and sat on the floor - Uzbeks in quilted cotton robes, old Uzbek women in white scarves, and young - in purple, red and green, and everyone in boots and galoshes. One Russian guy was lying, occupying an entire bench, with his coat unbuttoned and hanging to the floor, exhausted himself, his stomach swollen, and constantly screaming in pain. And these screams deafened Pavel Nikolaevich and hurt him so much, as if the guy was screaming not about himself, but about him.
Pavel Nikolaevich turned pale to the lips, stopped and whispered:
Mouth guard! I'll die here. No need. We'll be back.
Kapitolina Matveevna took his hand firmly and squeezed:
Well, maybe things will work out somehow with Moscow... Kapitolina Matveevna turned to her husband with her whole wide head, still broadened by lush copper-cut curls:
Pashenka! Moscow is maybe another two weeks, maybe it won’t be possible. How can you wait? After all, every morning it is bigger!
His wife squeezed him tightly at the wrist, conveying cheerfulness. In civil and official matters, Pavel Nikolayevich himself was unwavering - the more pleasant and calm it was for him to always rely on his wife in family matters: she decided everything important quickly and correctly.
And the guy on the bench was torn and screaming!
Maybe the doctors will agree to go home... We'll pay... - Pavel Nikolaevich hesitantly denied.
Pasik! - the wife inspired, suffering together with her husband, - you know, I myself am always the first for this: to call a person and pay. But we found out: these doctors don’t come, they don’t take money. And they have equipment. It is forbidden…
Pavel Nikolaevich himself understood that it was impossible. He said this just in case.
By agreement with the head physician of the oncology dispensary, the older sister was supposed to be waiting for them at two o'clock in the afternoon here, at the bottom of the stairs, down which the patient was now carefully descending on crutches. But, of course, the older sister was not there, and her closet under the stairs was locked.
You can't come to an agreement with anyone! - Kapitolina Matveevna flushed. - Why do they only get paid a salary?
As she was, hugged on the shoulders by two silver foxes, Kapitolina Matveevna walked along the corridor, where it was written: “Entry is prohibited in outerwear.”
Pavel Nikolaevich remained standing in the lobby. Fearfully, with a slight tilt of his head to the right, he felt his tumor between the collarbone and jaw. It was as if in the half hour since he last looked at her in the mirror at home, wrapping his muffler around her, she seemed to have grown even more. Pavel Nikolaevich felt weak and wanted to sit down. But the benches seemed dirty and we also had to ask some woman in a headscarf with a greasy bag on the floor between her legs to move. Even from a distance, the stinking smell from this bag did not seem to reach Pavel Nikolaevich.
And when will our population learn to travel with clean, neat suitcases! (However, now, with the tumor, it was no longer the same.)
The author himself preferred to call his book a story. And the fact that in modern literary criticism Solzhenitsyn’s “Cancer Ward” is most often called a novel; it speaks only of the conventionality of boundaries literary forms. But too many meanings and images turned out to be tied in this narrative into a single vital knot to consider the author’s designation of the genre of the work to be correct. This book is one of those that requires returning to its pages in an attempt to understand what escaped the first time we met it. There is no doubt about the multidimensionality of this work. “Cancer Ward” by Solzhenitsyn is a book about life, about death and about fate, but with all this, it is, as they say, “easy to read.” The everyday life and plot lines here do not in any way contradict the philosophical depth and figurative expressiveness.
Alexander Solzhenitsyn, "Cancer Ward". Events and people
Doctors and patients are at the center of the story here. In a small oncology department, standing separately in the courtyard of the Tashkent City Hospital, those for whom fate has given a “black mark” of cancer and those who are trying to help them come together. It's no secret that the author himself went through everything he describes in his book. Solzhenitsyn’s small two-story cancer building still stands in the same place in the same city. The Russian writer depicted him from life in a very recognizable way, because this is a real part of his biography. The irony of fate brought together obvious antagonists in one room, who turned out to be equal in the face of impending death. This main character, front-line soldier, former prisoner and exile Oleg Kostoglotov, in whom the author himself can easily be guessed.
He is opposed by a petty bureaucratic Soviet careerist, Pavel Rusanov, who achieved his position by fervently serving the system and writing denunciations against those who interfered with him or simply did not like him. Now these people find themselves in the same room. Hopes for recovery are very ephemeral for them. Many medicines have been tried and we can only hope for remedies traditional medicine, such as the chaga mushroom growing somewhere in Siberia on birch trees. The fates of the other inhabitants of the chamber are no less interesting, but they fade into the background before the confrontation between the two main characters. Within the cancer ward, the lives of all the inhabitants pass between despair and hope. And the author himself managed to defeat the disease even when it seemed that there was nothing more to hope for. He lived for a very long time and interesting life after leaving the oncology department of the Tashkent hospital.
History of the book
Solzhenitsyn's book "Cancer Ward" was published only in 1990, at the end of perestroika. Attempts to publish it in the Soviet Union were made by the author before. Individual chapters were being prepared for publication in the magazine " New world"in the early 60s of the twentieth century, until Soviet censorship saw the conceptual artistic design books. Solzhenitsyn's "Cancer Ward" is not just a hospital oncology department, it is something much larger and sinister. To the Soviet people I had to read this work in Samizdat, but just reading it could have suffered greatly.
