"For this reason: that though thou art my father, if thou goest on laughing, by Heavens, I'll give thee a thrashing." "Ah, wretch of a son! thrash thy father!" exclaimed Tarass Boolba, falling back a few steps in astonishment. "It matters not that thou art my father. I pay regard to nobody, and will permit nobody to insult me." "And how are we to fight? with our fists?" "In whatever manner it may chance." "Well, with fists be it!" said Tarass Boolba, tucking up his sleeves; "I will see what kind of a man thou art at fisticuffs!" And father and son, instead of embracing after a long separation, began to give one another blows on the ribs, on the loins, and on the chest, now falling back and taking aim, and now stepping forward again. "Only see, good people! the old man has gone mad! he has decidedly lost his senses!" Thus spoke the good mother, a thin, pale-faced woman, who stood at the threshold, and had not even had time to embrace her cherished sons. "The children are but just come home; for more than a year we have not seen them, and what has he got into his head that he should fight with them?" "He fights pretty well," said Boolba, stopping. "Very well, indeed!" continued he, taking breath; "so that I'd better not have tried it. A good Cossack will he make! Well, son! good day! let me embrace thee!" And father and son began kissing one another. "Well, my son, as thou didst strike me, so strike every one--give quarter to none! And nevertheless, thy dress is very funny! What cord is that hanging about thy loins? And thou, sluggard!" said he, turning to his younger son, "why dost thou remain there with thy hands hanging idle? why, son of a dog that thou art, why dost thou not give me a beating?" "What hast thou hit upon now!" said the mother, embracing her younger son; "how couldst thou get into thy brain that a son should beat his father? And is this the proper time, too? The child is yet young; he has undergone such a long journey, and is quite tired" (the child was twenty years old, and seven feet high); "he ought to take a meal and some rest; and thou wishest to make him fight!" "Ah, I have it! thou art a pet!" said Boolba; "do not, my son, give heed to what thy mother is saying; she is but a woman, and what can she know? As for thy coddling--the open field and a swift horse--these must be thy coddling! And look at this sabre--this is to be thy mother! It is all nonsense that they have been putting into your heads at the college: books, grammars, and philosophy, yes, the whole lot of them--I spit upon them all." Here Boolba used words such as are not to be met with in books. "I had better send you, not later than next week, to the Zaporoghian Ssiecha. There you will have something to learn! that will be a good school for you; there you will get brains!"