Free Diary of a Madman and Other Stories by Nikolái Gógol

at the door: the door opened, and who came to meet him? His ideal, his mysterious image, the original of his dream pictures, she for whom he lived so terribly, so painfully, so sweetly—she herself stood before him. He quivered, he could hardly stand for weakness, as fit of joy seized hold of him. She stood before him as lovely as ever, though her eyes were sleepy, though a pallor was creeping over her face which was no longer so fresh, yet she remained beautiful.
    â€œAh!” she cried, catching sight of Piskarev and rubbing her eyes. It was already two o’clock then. “Why did you run away that time?”
    He sat down weakly in a chair and gazed at her.
    â€œI’ve only just woken up; they brought me home at seven this morning. I was quite drunk,” she added smiling.
    Oh, better had you been dumb and bereft of your tongue than that you should make such speeches! She suddenly revealed the whole panorama of her life to him. But disregarding this and steeling himself, he decided to try whether his admonishment might have any effect on her. Plucking up heart he began to describe to her in a trembling and fiery voice the whole fearfulness of her position. She heard him attentively with the same feeling of surprise which we evince at the sight of something unexpected and strange. She glanced with a faint smile at her friend who was sitting in the corner and who had stopped combing her hair and was also listening attentively to this new preacher.
    â€œIt is true I am poor,” Piskarev said finally after a long and didactic exhortation, “but we will work hard; we will try to vie with each other to improve our life. There is nothing so pleasant as to be dependent on oneself alone for everything. I will sit at my painting and you, sitting by my side, will inspire my labor, and embroider or occupy yourself with some other handwork, and we will want for nothing.”
    â€œHow can I?” she interrupted him disdainfully. “I’m not a washerwoman or a sempstress that I should work.”
    Heaven! in these words the whole baseness of her despicable life was expressed, a life full of emptiness and sloth, the true companions of depravity.
    â€œMarry me!” her friend in the corner who had kept silent until then caught up with a bold look. “If I were your wife, this is how I should sit!” At which she put a stupid expression on her pitiful face, which amused the beautiful girl tremendously.
    Oh, this was too much! He had not strength to bear it! He rushed out, losing all control of his feelings and thoughts. His mind grew dulled: he wandered about stupidly, aimlessly all day, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. No one could tell whether he had taken shelter anywhere that night or not, and he only entered his flat on the following day led by some stupid instinct, looking pale and ghastly with dishevelled hair and signs of madness in his face. He locked himself in his room and let no one in, demanded nothing. Four days went by and his locked door did not once open; at length a week passed and the room continued locked as before. People rushed to the door and called him, but there was no reply; finally they broke down the door and found his corpse with the throat cut. A bloody razor lay on the floor. One could see by the convulsive pose of his arms and the strange distortion of his face that his hand had not been true and that he had lain in torture for a long time before his sinful soul had left his body.
    So poor Piskarev perished, the victim of a wild passion, quiet, shy, modest, and simple-minded as a child, bearing a spark of talent which might with time have flamed up wide and bright! No one wept over him; no one was seen beside his lifeless body except the usual figure of the supervisor of the flats and the calm face of the police doctor. His coffin was taken quietly, even without the ritual of the church to Okhta, there was only one mourner following, a