ST. PETERSBURG, _March_ 30.
Thank you, Marya Alexandrovna, thank you for your note, brief as it
was. All this time I have been in great suspense; twenty times a day I
have thought of you and my letter. You can't imagine how bitterly I
laughed at myself; but now I am in an excellent frame of mind, and very
much pleased with myself. Marya Alexandrovna, I am going to begin a
correspondence with you! Confess, this was not at all what you expected
after your answer; I'm surprised myself at my boldness.... Well, I
don't care, here goes! But don't be uneasy; I want to talk to you, not
of you, but of myself. It's like this, do you see: it's absolutely
needful for me, in the old-fashioned phraseology, to open my heart to
some one. I have not the slightest right to select you for my
confidant--agreed.
But listen: I won't demand of you an answer to my letters; I don't even
want to know whether you read my 'rigmarole'; but, in the name of all
that's holy, don't send my letters back to me!
Let me tell you, I am utterly alone on earth. In my youth I led a
solitary life, though I never, I remember, posed as a Byronic hero; but
first, circumstances, and secondly, a faculty of imaginative dreaming
and a love for dreaming, rather cool blood, pride, indolence--a number
of different causes, in fact, cut me off from the society of men. The
transition from dream-life to real life took place in me late...perhaps
too late, perhaps it has not fully taken place up to now. So long as I
found entertainment in my own thoughts and feelings, so long as I was
capable of abandoning myself to causeless and unuttered transports and
so on, I did not complain of my solitude. I had no associates; I had
what are called friends. Sometimes I needed their presence, as an
electrical machine needs a discharger--and that was all. Love... of that
subject we will not speak for the present. But now, I will own, now
solitude weighs heavy on me; and at the same time, I see no escape from
my position. I do not blame fate; I alone am to blame and am deservedly
punished. In my youth I was absorbed by one thing--my precious self; I
took my simple-hearted self-love for modesty; I avoided society--and
here I am now, a fearful bore to myself. What am I to do with myself?
There is no one I love; all my relations with other people are somehow
strained and false.
And I've no memories either, for in all my past life I can find nothing
but my own personality. Save me. To you I have made no passionate
protestations of love. You I have never smothered in a flood of aimless
babble. I passed by you rather coldly, and it is just for that reason I
make up my mind to have recourse to you now. (I have had thoughts of
doing so before this, but at that time you were not free....) Among all
my self-created sensations, pleasures and sufferings, the one genuine
feeling was the not great, but instinctive attraction to you, which
withered up at the time, like a single ear of wheat in the midst of
worthless weeds.... Let me just for once look into another face, into
another soul--my own face has grown hateful to me. I am like a man who
should have been condemned to live all his life in a room with walls of
looking-glass.... I do not ask of you any sort of confessions--oh
mercy, no! Bestow on me a sister's unspoken sympathy, or at least the
simple curiosity of a reader. I will entertain you, I will really.
Meanwhile I have the honour to be your sincere friend,