Poor People by Fyodor Dostoevsky — Read

My dear, Varenka, my sweetheart, my priceless one! You're being carried off, you're leaving! It'd be better now if they tore the heart from my breast, than you from me! How can you? So you're crying, and you're leaving?! I've just now received a letter from you all spotted with tears. That means you don't want to leave; that means you're being carried off forcibly, that means you feel sorry for me, that means you love me! But I don't understand, who will you be with now? Your little heart will be sad, sick and cold there. Anguish will gnaw at it, sadness will tear it in two. You'll die there, they'll lay you in the cold earth there; there'll be nobody even to cry over you there! Mr Bykov will be hunting hares all the time. Ah, my dear, my dear! What is it you've resolved upon, how could you have resolved upon such a step? What have you done, what have you done, what have you done to yourself? I mean, you'll be driven to your grave there; they'll wear you out there, my little angel. I mean, you're delicate as a feather, my dear. And where was I? Why was I just staring like an idiot? I can see the child's being silly, the little child's just got a headache. Instead of just simply – but oh no, I'm a complete idiot, and I don't think anything, and I don't see anything, as if I'm right and as if it's none of my business; and on top of that I went running around about a falbala!. No, Varenka, I'll get up; perhaps I'll be better by tomorrow, and then I'll get up!. I'll throw myself under the wheels, my dear; I won't let you go away! No, really, what is all this? By what rights is it all being done? I'll go away with you; I'll run after your carriage, if you won't take me, I'll run for all I'm worth until I drop dead. But do you know what it's like there, where it is you're going, my dear? Perhaps you don't know, so then ask me! There's the steppe there, my dear, there's the steppe, the bare steppe; bare as the palm of my hand! There's peasants there, unfeeling women and uneducated men, there's drunkards. The leaves have fallen from the trees there now, it's raining there, it's cold – and you're going there! Well, Mr Bykov has something to do there – he'll be with the hares there – but what about you? You want to be a landowner's wife, my dear? But my little cherub, you just take a look at yourself, do you look like a landowner's wife?. How can it possibly be, Varenka? Who ever will I write letters to, my dear? Yes! You just take into consideration, my dear – "who ever will he write letters to?" Who will I call my dear; who will I call by such a nice name? Where am I to find you later on, my little angel? I'll die, Varenka, I'll die for sure; my heart won't survive such a misfortune! I loved you like the Lord's light, loved you like my own daughter, I loved everything about you, my dear, my dear! And I lived for just you alone! I worked, and I wrote documents, and went about, and went for walks, and transferred my observations onto paper in the form of friendly letters, all because of the fact that you, my dear, lived here, opposite, nearby. Perhaps you didn't even know it, but that's precisely how it all was! Just listen, my dear, you judge, my dear sweetheart, how can it possibly be that you might go away from us? My dear, you mustn't leave, you know, it's not possible; there's simply definitely no possibility at all! I mean, it's raining, and you're weak, you'll catch cold. Your carriage will get wet; it's sure to get wet. As soon as you leave the city gate, it'll break down too; it'll break down on purpose. After all, they're really bad at making carriages here in St Petersburg! I know all those coach-builders too; they only want to build something fashionable, some smart toy, but they don't make them sturdy, I swear they don't! I'll throw myself onto my knees before Mr Bykov, my dear; I'll make him see, I'll make him see everything! And you make him see too, my dear; reason with him and make him see! Tell him you're staying, that you can't leave!. Ah, why is it he didn't marry the merchant's widow in Moscow? He should've married her there! The merchant's widow would be better, she'd suit him much better, and I know why! And I'd keep you here with me. What is he to you, my dear, this Bykov? How has he suddenly made himself dear to you? Perhaps it's because he keeps buying you falbalas, perhaps that's why it is? But I mean, what's a falbala? Why a falbala? After all, my dear, it's nonsense! We're talking about a human life here, my dear, whereas a falbala is, you know, just cloth; a falbala, my dear – it's just a bit of cloth. As soon as I get my salary, I'll buy you loads of falbalas myself; I'll buy you loads of them, my dear; there's even this little shop I know; just let me wait for my salary. Varenka, my little cherub! Oh Lord, Lord! So you're definitely going away to the steppe with Mr Bykov, going away and not coming back! Ah, my dear!. No, write some more to me, write me another nice letter about everything, and when you go away, write me a letter from there as well. Otherwise, my heavenly angel, this will be the last letter, you know, but I mean it can't possibly be the case that this letter should be the last. I mean, how could it be, that suddenly, specifically, definitely the last? But no, I'll write, and you write too. Because my style's taking shape now too. Ah my dear, what does style matter! I mean, I don't even know now what it is I'm writing, I don't know at all, I don't know anything, and I'm not rereading and I'm not correcting the style, but I'm writing just for the sake of writing, just for the sake of writing some more to you. My sweetheart, my dear, my dear!