"Nicolas, may I bring Pyotr Stepanovich in?" she asked softly and restrainedly, trying to make Nikolai Vsevolodovich out behind the lamp.
"You may, you may, of course you may!" Pyotr Stepanovich himself cried loudly and gaily, opened the door with his own hand, and walked in.
Nikolai Vsevolodovich had not heard the knock on the door, he heard only his mother's timid question, but had no time to answer it. At that moment there lay before him a letter he had just read, over which he was pondering deeply. Hearing Pyotr Stepanovich's sudden cry, he started and quickly covered the letter with a paperweight that happened to be there, but not quite successfully: a corner of the letter and almost the entire envelope could be seen.
"I cried as loud as I could on purpose, to give you time to get ready,” Pyotr Stepanovich whispered hastily, with surprising naivety, running over to the desk and instantly fixing his eyes on the paperweight and the corner of the letter.
"And of course you had time to spy me hiding this just-received letter under the paperweight," Nikolai Vsevolodovich said calmly, without stirring from his seat.
"A letter? For heaven's sake, what's your letter to me!" the guest exclaimed. "But... the main thing," he whispered again, turning towards the door, now closed, and nodding in that direction.
"She never eavesdrops," Nikolai Vsevolodovich observed coolly.
"I mean, what if she did eavesdrop!" Pyotr Stepanovich picked up at once, raising his voice gaily and sitting down in an armchair. "I've got nothing against it, I just ran by to have a private chat with you ... So I've got you at last! First of all, how is your health? I see, it's excellent, and perhaps you'll come tomorrow—eh?"
"Perhaps."
"But, release them, finally, release me!" he was gesticulating frantically, with a jocular and agreeable air. "If you knew the babble I've had to produce for them. But, then, you do know." He laughed.
"I don't know everything. I've only heard from mother that you've been very much ... on the move."
"I mean, it wasn't anything specific," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly heaved himself up, as if he were defending himself against some terrible attack, "you know, I pulled out Shatov's wife, I mean rumors about your liaison in Paris, which, of course, explained Sunday's incident... you're not angry?"
"I'm sure you tried very hard."
"Ah, just what I was afraid of. Incidentally, what does 'tried very hard' mean? It's a reproach. You put it straight, however; what I was most afraid of when I was coming here was that you wouldn't want to put it straight."
"I don't want to put anything straight," Nikolai Vsevolodovich said, with some irritation, but he grinned at once.
"I don't mean that, not that, don't take me wrong, not that!" Pyotr Stepanovich waved his hands, spilling the words out like peas, delighting at once in the master's irritability. "I won't irritate you with ourthing, especially in your present situation. I ran by only to talk about Sunday's incident, and that only so far as necessary, because it's really impossible. I've come with the most open explanations, and it's mainly I who need them, not you—that's for your vanity, but all the same it's the truth. I've come so as always to be frank from now on."
"So you weren't frank before?"
"And you know it yourself. I was cunning a lot of the time... you smile; I'm very glad of your smile, as a pretext for an explanation; I evoked your smile on purpose with the boastful word 'cunning,' so that you'd immediately get angry at my daring to think I could be cunning, and so as to explain myself at once. See, see how frank I've become now! Well, sir, will you kindly hear me out?"
The expression of Nikolai Vsevolodovich's face, contemptuously calm and even derisive, despite all the obviousness of the guest's wish to annoy his host with the insolence of his crude naiveties, prepared beforehand and intentionally, expressed at last a somewhat uneasy curiosity.
"Listen, now," Pyotr Stepanovich began to fidget more than ever. "When I set out to come here, I mean, here generally, to this town, ten days ago, I decided, of course, to adopt a role. The best would be no role at all, just one's own person, isn't that so? Nothing is more cunning than one's own person, because no one will believe you. To be frank, I wanted to adopt the silly fool, because the silly fool is easier than one's own person; but since the silly fool is, after all, an extreme thing, and extreme things arouse curiosity, I finally chose my own person. Well, sir, and what is my own person? The golden mean— neither stupid nor smart, rather giftless, and dropped from the moon, as sensible people here say, isn't that so?"
"Well, maybe it is," Nikolai Vsevolodovich smiled slightly.
"Ah, you agree—I'm very glad; I knew beforehand that these were your own thoughts... Don't worry, don't worry, I'm not angry, and I didn't define myself in that way to provoke your reverse praises: 'No, you're not giftless, no, you're smart...' Ah, you're smiling again! ... I've been caught again. You wouldn't say 'you're smart'— well, all right, I accept all that. Passons,as papa says, and, in parenthesis, don't be angry at my verbosity. Incidentally, here's an example for you: I always speak a lot, I mean, a lot of words, and I rush, and it always comes out wrong. And why is it that I speak a lot of words and it comes out wrong? Because I don't know how to speak. Those who know how to speak well, speak briefly. So, there you have my giftlessness—isn't it true? But since this gift of giftlessness is natural to me, why shouldn't I use it artificially? And so I do. True, as I was preparing to come here, I first had the thought of being silent; but to be silent is a great talent, and is therefore not fitting for me, and, second, it's dangerous to be silent, after all; well, so I finally decided that it would be best to talk, but precisely in a giftless way, I mean, a lot, a lot, a lot, to be in a great rush to prove something, and towards the end to get tangled up in one's own proofs, so that the listener throws up his hands, or, best of all, just spits and walks away without any end. The result will be, first, that you've convinced him of your simpleheartedness, have been very tiresome, and haven't been understood—all three profits at once! For pity's sake, who is going to start suspecting you of mysterious designs after that? No, there's not one of them who wouldn't be personally offended with anybody who said I had mysterious designs. And, what's more, I sometimes make them laugh—and that is priceless. No, they'll forgive me everything for this alone, that the wise man who published tracts there has turned out here to be stupider than they are, isn't that so? I can see by your smile that you approve."
Incidentally, Nikolai Vsevolodovich was not smiling at all, but, on the contrary, was listening frowningly and somewhat impatiently.
"Eh? What? Did I hear you say 'Who cares?'" Pyotr Stepanovich rattled on (Nikolai Vsevolodovich had not said anything at all). "Of course, of course; I assure you it's not at all so as to compromise you with comradeship. And, you know, you're terribly jumpy today; I came running to you with an open and cheerful soul, and you pick up every dropped stitch; I assure you I won't talk about anything ticklish today, I give you my word, and I accept all your conditions beforehand!"