Taras Bulba

1 "Turn around and let me look at you! What a sight! What are you wearing there, a priest's cassock or something? Is that how you run around at that academy of yours?" These were the words with which old Bulba greeted his two sons, who, having completed their studies at the Seminary in Kiev, had come home to their father. The sons had just dismounted from their horses. They were robust young men, with the sullen look one sees in all Seminary students recently released. Their strong, healthy faces were covered with a first down that had not yet been touched by a razor. Embarrassed by the way their father welcomed them, they stared sullenly at the ground. "Wait, wait! Let me get a good look at you!" Bulba continued, turning them around. "What are these long tunics you're wearing, if you can even call them that? I've never seen the like! Take a few stepsI swear they'll get caught between your legs, and you'll go flying!" "Don't make fun of us, Papa!" the older of the boys finally said. "Look how high and mighty he is! And why, pray, shouldn't I make fun of you?" "Because, well . . . even though you're my papa, if you make fun of me, then by God I'll thrash you!" "Ha! You damn son of a you-know-what! Your own father?" Taras Bulba shouted, staggering back in surprise. "Yes, even though you're my father. Insult me, and I don't care who you are!" "So how do you want to fight, with your fists?" "Any way you want!" "Well then, show me your fists!" Taras Bulba said, pulling up his sleeves. "I'd like to see what kind of man you are with your fists!" Father and son, instead of greeting each other after their long separation, began throwing punches at each other's stomach and chest, stepping back to glare at each other and then attacking again. "Neighbors, villagers!" shouted the boys' pale, gaunt mother, who was standing on the threshold and had not had a chance to embrace her beloved children. "The old man's gone mad! His mind's unhinged! The boys come home, we haven't seen them for over a year, and what does he do? Fly at them with his fists!" "He fights well, this one!" Bulba gasped, stopping for a moment. "By God, he fights well!" he continued, catching his breath. "So well that I'd have done better not to test him. He'll make a good Cossack, this one! I welcome you, my son! Let us kiss!" And father and son kissed. "Well done, my boy! You can get the better of any man if you go at him the way you went at me! Show mercy to no one. But I still think you're wearing the oddest clothes I've ever seen! What's this string hanging there? And you," he shouted, turning to his younger son. "You Grand Padishah, why are you standing there with your arms dangling?* You son of a dog, aren't you going to punch me too?" * Padishah = "Great Emperor." The title of the sultan of Turkey. "What will he think of next?" the mother gasped, throwing her arms around the boy. "He wants his own flesh and blood to raise a hand to him! That's all we need! The boy is young, has had a long journey, and must be exhausted!" (The boy was nearly twenty and well over six feet tall.) "He has to rest and eat a bite of food, and the old fool wants to fightGogol, Nikolai is the author of 'Taras Bulba', published 2003 under ISBN 9780679642558 and ISBN 0679642552.