Cancer Ward Read Online Free PDF

again raised himself from the pillow with his elbows, carefully, to avoid the stabbing pains from his tumor.
    Proshka was standing beside his bed near the light switch and beginning to undress.
    â€œYoung man! Turn off the light!” Pavel Nikolayevich commanded.
    â€œEh?… er … Nurse hasn’t come with the medicines yet,” faltered Proshka, but he reached up one hand toward the switch.
    â€œTurn off the light—what do you mean?” growled Bone-chewer’s voice behind Rusanov. “Who d’you think you are, you’re not the only person here.”
    Pavel Nikolayevich sat up straight and put on his spectacles. Carefully nursing his tumor, he turned, making the bedsprings creak, and said, “You might be a bit more polite. ”
    The rude fellow pulled a face and answered in a low voice, “Don’t change the subject. You’re not my boss.”
    Pavel Nikolayevich threw him a withering glare, but this had no effect whatever on Bone-chewer.
    â€œOK, but what do you need the light for?” Rusanov went over to peaceful negotiation.
    â€œSo I can pick my asshole,” said Kostoglotov coarsely.
    Pavel Nikolayevich began to have difficulty with his breathing, although by now he was pretty well acclimatized to the air in the ward. The impudent fellow ought to be discharged from hospital at twenty minutes’ notice and sent back to work. But at the moment he had no concrete means of action. (He would of course mention him to the hospital administration later on.)
    â€œIf you want to read or something, you can go out into the corridor,” Pavel Nikolayevich pointed out, trying to be fair. “Why should you take it upon yourself to decide for everyone? There are different sorts of patients here and distinctions have to be made…”
    â€œThere’ll be distinctions.” Bone-chewer showed his fangs. “They’ll write you an obituary: Party member since the year zero. As for us, they’ll just carry us out feet first.”
    Pavel Nikolayevich had never come across such unrestrained insubordination, such unbridled wilfulness. He could not recall anything like it. He found himself at a loss—how could be counter this sort of thing? He couldn’t complain to that girl. The conversation would have to be cut short for the present in the most dignified manner possible. Pavel Nikolayevich took off his spectacles, lay down carefully and covered his head with the towel.
    He was exploding with indignation and anguish at the thought of how he had weakly agreed to enter this clinic. But it would not be too late to get a discharge tomorrow.
    It was shortly after eight o’clock by his watch. Oh well, for the moment he would put up with it all. Sooner or later they’d quiet down.
    But the floor started shaking again as someone paced up and down between the beds. Of course it was Yefrem coming back. The old floorboards vibrated with his footsteps and Rusanov could feel the vibrations through the bedrails and the pillow. However, Pavel Nikolayevich decided not to rebuke him, but to endure it.
    There’s such bad manners and impudence among our people. We still haven’t got rid of it. How can we lead them to a new society carrying this burden?
    The evening dragged endlessly. The nurse began her rounds—once, twice, a third and fourth time—a mixture for one, a powder for another, injections for two more. Azovkin uttered a shriek when he was given his injection, and again begged for a hot-water bottle to help the serum disperse more quickly. Yefrem kept tramping up and down, unable to find peace. Ahmadjan and Proshka were talking from their beds. It was as if they were only now coming properly to life, as if they hadn’t a care in the world or anything that needed curing. Even Dyomka was not ready to sleep. He came up and sat on Kostoglotov’s bed and they began muttering, right by Pavel Nikolayevich’s