Read Online Diary of a Madman and Other Stories by Nikolái Gógol - Free Book Online Page A

painted, and similar rubbish.
    He remained in bed till midday wishing to fall asleep; but she did not appear. If only she would show her lovely features for one second, if only her light step might sound, if only her bare bright hand like snow beyond the clouds would pass before him!
    Brushing everything aside, forgetting everything, he sat with a defeated, hopeless expression on his face, obsessed with the dream alone. He did not think of touching anything; his eyes gazed out of the window without any participation or life, where it looked on the yard and a dirty water-carrier distributed water which froze in the air, and the bleating voice of a hawker jarred: “Any old clothes.” The realities of everyday sounded strangely in his ears. He sat out the whole day like this and then fell greedily into bed. He battled against sleeplessness for a long time and finally conquered it. Again some dream or other, a trivial nasty dream. “O God, have mercy, for one minute, show me her for just one minute.” He waited for evening once more, fell asleep again, and again dreamed of a clerk who was both a clerk and a bassoon. Oh, it was intolerable ! At last she appeared! Her head and hair.... She looked out.... Oh, for so short a time! And again a mist, again some stupid dream.
    Ultimately dreams became his life, and from this time his whole life took a peculiar turn: one could say, that he slept through reality and awoke in sleep. If someone had seen him sitting motionless at his table, or walking along his street, he would probably have taken Piskarev for a lunatic or a man ruined by strong drink; his expression was absolutely devoid of meaning and his natural absent-mindedness finally developed until it was sufficiently powerful to drive all feelings and movement from his face. He revived only as night approached.
    Such a state of affairs ruined his health, and the fact that sleep began to leave him altogether became the most terrible torture to him. In his desire to save his one treasure he used every means to retain it. He had heard that there is a means to restore a dream—you merely have to take opium. But where could one get opium? He remembered a certain Persian who owned a shawl shop and who nearly always begged Piskarev when they met to paint him a beautiful woman. Piskarev decided to go to him, thinking that he was bound to have opium.
    The Persian received him, sitting on a divan with his feet tucked under him. “Why do you want opium?” he asked. Piskarev told him about his sleeplessness.
    â€œAll right, I’ll give you some opium, if you paint me a beautiful girl. A good one, mind you. With black brows and eyes as large as olives; and me lying beside her and smoking my pipe! You hear, a good one! A really beautiful girl!”
    Piskarev promised everything. The Persian went out for a minute and returned with a small tin full of a dark liquid. He poured out part of this carefully into another tin and gave it to Piskarev with instructions not to take more than seven drops in water. He greedily seized the precious tin which he would not have exchanged for a crock of gold and rushed home breathlessly.
    Arriving back, he poured out a few drops into a glass of water and swallowing it, threw himself down to sleep.
    Heavens, what joy! She came! She again, only now in a completely new world! How beautifully she sat in the window of a bright country cottage! Her dress exhaled the simplicity in which only a poet’s thought is clothed. The style of her hair.... Heavens, how simple it was and how it suited her! A short kerchief was wound lightly round her shapely neck; everything about her was simple, everything was mysterious and inexpressibly tasteful. How dear was her graceful walk! How musical the sound of her footsteps and of her plain dress! How lovely her arm clasped by a bracelet made of hair! She said to him with tears in her eyes: “Don’t despise me: I’m not what you took me to