Poor Folk quotes

Yet how vexed I felt that I could not distinguish your sweet face clearly! For there was a time when you and I could see one another without any difficulty at all.

Ah me, but old age is not always a blessing, my beloved one!

At this very moment everything is standing awry to my eyes, for a man needs only to work late overnight in his writing of something or other for, in the morning, his eyes to be red, and the tears to be gushing from them in …

Even before I had started for the office you had taken flight from your room, and passed through the courtyard—yes, looking as vernal-like as a bird in spring. What rapture it gave me to see you!

Ah, little Barbara, little Barbara, you must never give way to grief, for tears are of no avail, nor sorrow.

I know this well—I know it of my own experience. So do you rest quietly until you have regained your health a little. But how is our good Thedora? What a kind heart she has!

Convenience and nothing else, has made me do so. The snugness of the place has caught my fancy. Also, I shall be able to save money here, and to hoard it against the future. Already I have saved a little money as a beginning.

Nor must you despise me because I am such an insignificant old fellow that a fly could break me with its wing.

True, I am not a swashbuckler; but perhaps there may also abide in me the spirit which should pertain to every man who is at once resigned and sure of himself. Goodbye, then, again, my angel.

As for poetry, I may say that I consider it unbecoming for a man of my years to devote his faculties to the making of verses.

Poetry is rubbish. Even boys at school ought to be whipped for writing it.

Why do you write thus about “comfort” and “peace” and the rest? I am not a fastidious man, nor one who requires much. Never in my life have I been so comfortable as now. Why, then, should I complain in my old age?

My old room was such a snug little place! True, its walls resembled those of any other room—I am not speaking of that; the point is that the recollection of them seems to haunt my mind with sadness.

Curious that recollections should be so mournful!

Even what in that room used to vex me and inconvenience me now looms in a purified light, and figures in my imagination as a thing to be desired. We used to live there so quietly—I and an old landlady who is now dead.

At first the impression is an unpleasant one, but a couple of minutes will suffice to dissipate it, for the reason that everything here smells—people’s clothes, hands, and everything else—and one grows accustomed to the rankness.

Canaries, however, soon die in this house.

A naval officer here has just bought his fifth. Birds cannot live long in such an air. Every morning, when fish or beef is being cooked, and washing and scrubbing are in progress, the house is filled with steam.

Always, too, the kitchen is full of linen hanging out to dry; and since my room adjoins that apartment, the smell from the clothes causes me not a little annoyance.

However, one can grow used to anything.

From earliest dawn the house is astir as its inmates rise, walk about, and stamp their feet. That is to say, everyone who has to go to work then gets out of bed. First of all, tea is partaken of.

Yet we had to get clothes to wear, to provide for unforeseen expenses, and to have a little money at our disposal in case we should some day wish to remove elsewhere. Unfortunately, the strain undermined my mother’s health, and she became gradually weaker.

Sickness, like a cankerworm, was gnawing at her life, and dragging her towards the tomb.

Well could I see what she was enduring, what she was suffering. Yes, it all lay open to my eyes.

All that day I felt torn with remorse. To think that we two children had forced him, the poor, the unhappy one, to remember his hard lot! And at night I could not sleep for grief and regret.

Remorse is said to bring relief to the soul, but it is not so.

How far my grief was internally connected with my conceit I do not know, but at least I did not wish him to think me a baby, seeing that I had now reached the age of fifteen years.

To this day it both hurts and delights me to recall it. Joyous or bitter though it was, its memories are yet painful. At least they seem so to me, though a certain sweetness assuaged the pain.

So, whenever I am feeling heartsick and oppressed and jaded and sad those memories return to freshen and revive me, even as drops of evening dew return to freshen and revive, after a sultry day, the poor faded flower which has long been drooping in the noontide heat.

My mother grew better, but still I continued to spend the nights on a chair by her bedside. Often, too, Pokrovski would give me books.

I am sure that you need me, that I can be of use to you; and, since that is so, I must not allow myself to be distracted by any trifle.

Even if I be likened to a rat, I do not care, provided that that particular rat be wanted by you, and be of use in the world, and be retained in its position, and receive its reward. But what a rat it is!

Enough of this, dearest one. I ought not to have spoken of it, but I lost my temper. Still, it is pleasant to speak the truth sometimes. Goodbye, my own, my darling, my sweet little comforter!

He was so thin, too! Always he reddens in the face when he is addressed, and becomes too confused to answer. A little girl, his daughter, was leaning against the coffin—her face looking so worn and thoughtful, poor mite!

Do you know, I cannot bear to see a child look thoughtful.

On the floor there lay a rag doll, but she was not playing with it as, motionless, she stood there with her finger to her lips. Even a bonbon which the landlady had given her she was not eating.

She is said to be a woman of great intellect and wit.

An artful dog, that Rataziaev!

But enough of this. I write this sort of thing both to amuse myself and to divert your thoughts. Goodbye now, my angel.

What, in such a case, should I do with my feet (for I may tell you that almost always my shoes are patched, or have just been resoled, and therefore look anything but becoming)?

To think that the great writer Dievushkin should walk about in patched footgear!

If a duchess or a countess should recognise me, what would she say, poor woman?

Ah, the dreams that come to me! I feel that my health is breaking, so weak am I. When this morning I arose, sickness took me until I vomited and vomited. Yes, I feel, I know, that death is approaching.

Who will bury me when it has come? Who will visit my tomb? Who will sorrow for me?

And now it is in a strange place, in the house of a stranger, that I may have to die! Yes, in a corner which I do not know! … My God, how sad a thing is life!

What answers shall I then return? You see, I am now so unused to society—so shy! I like to live in a corner to which I have long grown used.

Yes, the place with which one is familiar is always the best. Even if for companion one has but sorrow, that place will still be the best.

… God alone knows what duties the post will entail. Perhaps I shall merely be required to act as nursemaid; and in any case, I hear that the governess there has been changed three times in two years.

Sometimes I would hire cabs, and discharge them in view of her abode; until at length I had entirely ruined myself, and got into debt. Then I fell out of love with her—I grew weary of the pursuit. …

You see, therefore, to what depths an actress can reduce a decent man.

In those days I was young. Yes, in those days I was very young.

… differ in rank, and every official demands that he shall be allowed to abuse his fellow officials in proportion to his rank, it follows that the tone also of official abuse should become divided into ranks, and thus accord with the natural order of things.

All the world is built upon the system that each one of us shall have to yield precedence to some other one, as well as to enjoy a certain power of abusing his fellows.

Without such a provision the world could not get on at all, and simple chaos would ensue. Yet I am surprised that our Thedor should continue to overlook insults of the kind that he endures.

All the world is built upon the system that each one of us shall have to yield precedence to some other one, as well as to enjoy a certain power of abusing his fellows.

Without such a provision the world could not get on at all, and simple chaos would ensue.

Yet I am surprised that our Thedor should continue to overlook insults of the kind that he endures.

May not people be talking of him? How is it that he is so unsightly? What is he feeling at all? What sort of figure is he cutting on the one side or on the other?

It is matter of common knowledge, my Barbara, that the poor man ranks lower than a rag, and will never earn the respect of anyone.

Yes, write about him as you like—let scribblers say what they choose about him—he will ever remain as he was. And why is this?

… But what does it matter to you if my hair lacks the shears? If you will forgive me what may seem to you a piece of rudeness,

I declare that the poor man is ashamed of such things with the sensitiveness of a young girl.

You, for instance, would not care (pray pardon my bluntness) to unrobe yourself before the public eye; and in the same way, the poor man does not like to be pried at or questioned concerning his family relations, and so forth.

… You were going to send me a book of some sort, to divert my mind—were you not, dearest? What book, though, could now divert me? Only such books as have never existed on earth.

Novels are rubbish, and written for fools and for the idle.

Believe me, dearest, I know it through long experience. Even should they vaunt Shakespeare to you, I tell you that Shakespeare is rubbish, and proper only for lampoons—Your own,

What book, though, could now divert me? Only such books as have never existed on earth. Novels are rubbish, and written for fools and for the idle. Believe me, dearest, I know it through long experience.

Even should they vaunt Shakespeare to you, I tell you that Shakespeare is rubbish, and proper only for lampoons

—Your own,

Yet I hide, I carefully hide, this from everyone. I would hide my person in the same way, were it not that daily I have to attend the office where I have to be constantly on my guard against my fellows.

Nevertheless, merely to be able to confess this to you renews my spiritual strength.

We must not think of these things, Barbara, lest the thought of them break our courage. I write them down merely to warn you not to think of them, nor to torture yourself with bitter imaginings. Yet, my God, what is to become of us?

but the point is—what would people say, what would every envious and hostile tongue exclaim, when I was seen without an overcoat?

It is for other folk that one wears an overcoat and boots.

In any case, therefore, I should have needed boots to maintain my name and reputation; to both of which my ragged footgear would otherwise have spelled ruin.

Softly I opened the wicket-gate. Horrors! A great ragged brute of a watchdog came flying out at me, and foaming at the mouth, and nearly jumping out his skin!

Curious is it to note what little, trivial incidents will nearly make a man crazy, and strike terror to his heart, and annihilate the firm purpose with which he has armed himself.

At all events, I approached the house more dead than alive, and walked straight into another catastrophe.

Arriving, I tried to clean myself up a little, but Sniegirev, the porter, said that it was impossible for me to do so, and that I should only spoil the brush, which belonged to the Government.

Thus, my darling, do such fellows rate me lower than the mat on which they wipe their boots!

What is it that will most surely break me? It is not the want of money, but the little worries of life—these whisperings and nods and jeers. Any day his Excellency himself may round upon me. Ah, dearest, my golden days are gone.

Yes, we will read together, and talk of old times, and Thedora shall tell you of her pilgrimages in former days. For God’s sake beloved, do not ruin both yourself and me.

I live for you alone; it is for your sake alone that I am still here.

Be your better self once more—the self which still can remain firm in the face of misfortune. Poverty is no crime; always remember that. After all, why should we despair? Our present difficulties will pass away, and God will right us. Only be brave.

For God’s sake beloved, do not ruin both yourself and me. I live for you alone; it is for your sake alone that I am still here. Be your better self once more—the self which still can remain firm in the face of misfortune.

Poverty is no crime; always remember that.

After all, why should we despair? Our present difficulties will pass away, and God will right us. Only be brave. I send you two grivenniks for the purchase of some tobacco or anything else that you need;

… any good with my life, and that I was inferior even to the sole of my own boot, I took it into my head that it was absurd for me to aspire at all—rather, that I ought to account myself a disgrace and an abomination.

Once a man has lost his self-respect, and has decided to abjure his better qualities and human dignity, he falls headlong, and cannot choose but do so.

It is decreed of fate, and therefore I am not guilty in this respect.

in fact, they so disliked me that at length I began to dislike myself, for, being frequently told that I was stupid, I began to believe that I really was so.

But the instant that you came into my life, you lightened the dark places in it, you lightened both my heart and my soul.

Gradually, I gained rest of spirit, until I had come to see that I was no worse than other men, and that, though I had neither style nor brilliancy nor polish, I was still a man as regards my thoughts and feelings. But now, alas!

Even before I had sinned I felt as I do now; but I gave way to despair, and the more so as I recognised my fault. Darling, I am not cruel or hard-hearted.

To rend your little soul would be the act of a bloodthirsty tiger, whereas I have the heart of a sheep.

You yourself know that I am not addicted to bloodthirstiness, and therefore that I cannot really be guilty of the fault in question, seeing that neither my mind nor my heart have participated in it. Nor can I understand wherein the guilt lies.

Song and dance will arise at night from the village girls, and on festival days everyone will repair to God’s house to thank Him with grateful tears for what He has done. …

Ah, a golden time was my time of childhood!

…

Yet in the present everything looks dim and dark! How will it all end?—how? Do you know, I have a feeling, a sort of sure premonition, that I am going to die this coming autumn; for I feel terribly, oh so terribly ill!

Often do I think of death, yet feel that I should not like to die here and be laid to rest in the soil of St. Petersburg.

Once more I have had to take to my bed, as I did last spring, for I have never really recovered. Indeed I feel so depressed! Thedora has gone out for the day, and I am alone.

And what a quantity of boats there were on the canal. It made one wonder how they could all find room there. On every bridge were old women selling damp gingerbread or withered apples, and every woman looked as damp and dirty as her wares.

In short, the Fontanka is a saddening spot for a walk, for there is wet granite under one’s feet, and tall, dingy buildings on either side of one, and wet mist below and wet mist above.

Yes, all was dark and gloomy there this evening.

Nevertheless, it is you, my darling, who ought to be riding in one of those carriages. Generals would have come seeking your favour, and, instead of being clad in a humble cotton dress, you would have been walking in silken and golden attire.

Then you would not have been thin and wan as now, but fresh and plump and rosy-cheeked as a figure on a sugar-cake.

Then should I too have been happy—happy if only I could look at your lighted windows from the street, and watch your shadow—happy if only I could think that you were well and happy, my sweet little bird! Yet how are things in reality?

Indeed, I had not a groat on me. Rich folk dislike hearing poor people complain of their poverty. “They disturb us,” they say, “and are impertinent as well.

Why should poverty be so impertinent? Why should its hungry moans prevent us from sleeping?

”

Maybe you think that I am exaggerating things—that this is a mere whim of mine, or that I am quoting from a book? No, no, Barbara. You may rest assured that it is not so.

Exaggeration I abhor, with whims I have nothing to do, and of quotation I am guiltless.

I arrived home today in a melancholy mood. Sitting down to the table, I had warmed myself some tea, and was about to drink a second glass of it, when there entered Gorshkov, the poor lodger.

After long resistance and many refusals, he did consent to take some, but only the smallest possible lump; after which, he assured me that his tea was perfectly sweet.

To what depths of humility can poverty reduce a man!

“Well, what is it, my good sir?” I inquired of him; whereupon he replied: “It is this, Makar Alexievitch. You have once before been my benefactor. Pray again show me the charity of God, and assist my unfortunate family.

He had come to me for protection from his troubles, so I did my best to soothe him. Now, goodbye, my darling. May Christ watch over you and preserve your health.

Dearest one, even to think of you is like medicine to my ailing soul. Though I suffer for you, I at least suffer gladly.

—Your true friend,

In the beginning his Excellency had turned away, but now he threw me another glance, and I heard him say to Evstafi Ivanovitch: “What on earth is the matter with the fellow? Look at the figure he cuts! Who to God is he?”

Ah, beloved, only to hear that, “Who to God is he?” Truly I had made myself a marked man!

In reply to his Excellency Evstafi murmured: “He is no one of any note, though his character is good. Besides, his salary is sufficient as the scale goes.” “Very well, then; but help him out of his difficulties somehow,” said his Excellency.

But he only grew very red, and then—no, I am not departing by a hair’s-breadth from the truth—it is true—that he took this unworthy hand in his, and shook it!

Yes, he took this hand of mine in his, and shook it, as though I had been his equal, as though I had been a general like himself!

“Go now,” he said. “This is all that I can do for you. Make no further mistakes, and I will overlook your fault.”

… sight of myself and my abasement and helplessness, I yet care less for the hundred roubles which his Excellency has given me than for the fact that he was good enough to take the hand of a wretched drunkard in his own and press it.

By that act he restored me to myself. By that act he revived my courage, he made life forever sweet to me.

… Yes, sure am I that, sinner though I be before the Almighty, my prayers for the happiness and prosperity of his Excellency will yet ascend to the Heavenly Throne! …

But what bad times they were, Barbara, even though they be gone, and can no longer matter! As the years pass on we shall gradually recover ourselves. How clearly I remember my youth! In those days I never had a kopeck to spare.

Yet, cold and hungry though I was, I was always lighthearted.

In the morning I would walk the Nevski Prospect, and meet nice-looking people, and be happy all day. Yes, it was a glorious, a glorious time! It was good to be alive, especially in St. Petersburg.

In their room, however, all is bustle and confusion, for the doctors are about to make an autopsy on the corpse. But I cannot tell you things for certain; I only know that I am most grieved, most grieved.

How sad to think that one never knows what even a day, what even an hour, may bring forth! One seems to die to so little purpose!

… —Your own

… Thedora will share your happiness—for, of course, you will be happy, and free from want, darling, dearest, sweetest of angels! But why should the matter be so hurried? Oh, of course—Monsieur Bwikov’s business affairs.

Only a man who has no affairs to see to can afford to disregard such things.

I got a glimpse of Monsieur Bwikov as he was leaving your door. He is a fine-looking man—a very fine-looking man; though that is not the point that I should most have noticed had I been quite myself at the time.