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one. You are a fool, that’s what you are!’
‘Not Tchizhov, not Tchizhov, you spiteful, mischievous
woman. I’ll give the boy a hiding. Catch him, catch him, he
was laughing at me
The woman guffawed. But Kolya was by now a long way
off, marching along with a triumphant air. Smurov walked
beside him, looking round at the shouting group far behind.
He too was in high spirits, though he was still afraid of get-
ting into some scrape in Kolya’s company.
‘What Sabaneyev did you mean?’ he asked Kolya, fore-
seeing what his answer would be.
‘How do I know? Now there’ll be a hubbub among them
all day. I like to stir up fools in every class of society. There’s
another blockhead, that peasant there. You know, they say
‘there’s no one stupider than a stupid Frenchman,’ but a stu-
pid Russian shows it in his face just as much. Can’t you see
it all over his face that he is a fool, that peasant, eh?’
‘Let him alone, Kolya. Let’s go on.’
‘Nothing could stop me, now I am once off. Hey, good
morning, peasant!’
A sturdy-looking peasant, with a round, simple face and
grizzled beard, who was walking by, raised his head and
looked at the boy. He seemed not quite sober.
‘Good morning, if you are not laughing at me,’ he said
deliberately in reply.
‘And if I am?’ laughed Kolya.
‘Well, a joke’s a joke. Laugh away. I don’t mind. There’s
no harm in a joke.’
‘I beg your pardon, brother, it was a joke.’

The Brothers Karamazov