ST. PETERSBURG, _April_ 7.
I am writing to you again, though I foresee that without your approval
I shall soon cease writing. I must own that you cannot but feel some
distrust of me. Well, perhaps you are right too. In old days I should
have triumphantly announced to you (and very likely I should have quite
believed my own words myself) that I had 'developed,' made progress,
since the time when we parted. With condescending, almost affectionate,
contempt I should have referred to my past, and with touching
self-conceit have initiated you into the secrets of my real, present
life ... but, now, I assure you, Marya Alexandrovna, I'm positively
ashamed and sick to remember the capers and antics cut at times by my
paltry egoism. Don't be afraid: I am not going to force upon you any
great truths, any profound views. I have none of them--of those truths
and views. I have become a simple good fellow--really. I am bored,
Marya Alexandrovna, I'm simply bored past all enduring. That is why I
am writing to you.... I really believe we may come to be friends....
But I'm positively incapable of talking to you, till you hold out a
hand to me, till I get a note from you with the one word 'Yes.' Marya
Alexandrovna, are you willing to listen to me? That's the
question.--Yours devotedly,