The Brothers Karamazov

“For the Kuz-mi-chevs?” another woman repeated. “He’s no Trifon. That one’s Kuzma, not Trifon, and the boy said Trifon Nikitich, so it’s somebody else.”

“No, he’s no Trifon, and he’s no Sabaneyev either, he’s Chizhov,” a third woman suddenly joined in, who up to then had been silent and listening seriously. “His name’s Alexei Ivanich. Alexei Ivanich Chizhov.”

“That’s right, he is Chizhov,” a fourth woman confirmed emphatically.

The stunned fellow kept looking from one woman to another.

“But why did he ask me, why did he ask me, good people?” he kept exclaiming, now almost in despair. ‘“Do you know Sabaneyev?’ Devil knows who Sabaneyev is!”

“What a muddlehead! Didn’t you hear, it’s not Sabaneyev, it’s Chizhov, Alexei Ivanich Chizhov, that’s who!” one of the market women shouted at him imposingly.

“What Chizhov? Who is he? Tell me, if you know.”

“A tall, snot-nosed fellow, he used to sit in the marketplace last summer.”

“What the hell do I need your Chizhov for, eh, good people?”

“How do I know what the hell you need Chizhov for?”

“Who knows what you need him for?” another woman joined in. “You should know what you need him for, it’s you doing all the squawking. He was speaking to you, not to us, fool that you are. So you really don’t know him?”

“Who?”

“Chizhov.”

“Ah, devil take Chizhov, and you along with him! I’ll give him a thrashing, that’s what! He was laughing at me!” “You’ll give Chizhov a thrashing? More likely he’ll give you one! You’re a fool, that’s what!”

“Not Chizhov, not Chizhov, you wicked, nasty woman, I’ll thrash the boy, that’s what! Let me have him, let me have him—he was laughing at me!”

The women all roared with laughter. And Kolya was already far off, strutting along with a triumphant expression on his face. Smurov walked beside him, looking back at the group shouting far behind them. He, too, was having a good time, though he still feared getting into some scandal with Kolya.

“What Sabaneyev were you asking him about?” he asked Kolya, guessing what the answer would be.

“How do I know? They’ll go on shouting till nighttime now. I like stirring up fools in all strata of society. There stands another dolt, that peasant there. People say, ‘There’s no one stupider than a stupid Frenchman,’ but note how the Russian physiognomy betrays itself. Isn’t it written all over that peasant’s face that he’s a fool, eh?”

“Leave him alone, Kolya. Let’s keep going.”

“No, now that I’ve gotten started, I wouldn’t stop for the world. Hey! Good morning, peasant!”

A burly peasant, who was slowly passing by and seemed to have had a drop to drink already, with a round, simple face and a beard streaked with gray, raised his head and looked at the lad.

“Well, good morning, if you’re not joking,” he answered unhurriedly.

“And if I am joking?” laughed Kolya.

“Joke then, if you’re joking, and God be with you. Never mind, it’s allowed. A man can always have his joke.”

“Sorry, brother, I was joking.”

“So, God will forgive you.”

“But you, do you forgive me?”

“That I do. Run along now.”

“Look here, you seem to be a smart peasant.”

“Smarter than you,” the peasant replied unexpectedly, and with the same air of importance.

“That’s unlikely,” Kolya was somewhat taken aback.

“It’s the truth I’m telling you.”

“Well, maybe it is.”

“So there, brother.”

“Good-bye, peasant.”

“Good-bye.”

“Peasants differ,” Kolya observed to Smurov after some silence. “How was I to know I’d run into a smart one? I’m always prepared to recognize intelligence in the people.” Far away the cathedral clock struck half past eleven. The boys began to hurry, and covered the rest of the still quite long way to Captain Snegiryov’s house quickly and now almost without speaking. Twenty paces from the house, Kolya stopped and told Smurov to go on ahead and call Karamazov out to meet him there.

“For some preliminary sniffing,” he observed to Smurov.

“But why call him out?” Smurov tried to object. “Just go in, they’ll be terribly glad to see you. Why do you want to get acquainted in the freezing cold?”

“It’s for me to know why I need him here, in the freezing cold,” Kolya snapped despotically (as he was terribly fond of doing with these “little boys”), and Smurov ran to carry out the order.

Chapter 4: Zhuchka