“Will give Tchizhov a hiding! More likely he will give you 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 getting into some scrape in Kolya’s company.
“What Sabaneyev did you mean?” he asked Kolya, foreseeing 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 stupid 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.