ÂWell, let it be fisticuffs,â said Taras Bulba, turning up his sleeves. ÂSo you want to fight me? with your fist, eh?â I donât stop to consider persons when an insult is in question.â ÂWhat kind of son are you? what, strike your father!â exclaimed Taras Bulba, retreating several paces in amazement. ÂBecause, although you are my father, if you laugh, by heavens, I will strike you!â ÂHow touchy we are! Why shouldnât I laugh?â ÂDonât laugh, donât laugh, father!â said the eldest lad at length. Just run, one of you! I want to see whether you will not get entangled in the skirts, and fall down.â âHow long your gaberdines are! What gaberdines! There never were such gaberdines in the world before. ÂStand still, stand still! let me have a good look at you,â he continued, turning them around. They were greatly discomfited by such a reception from their father, and stood motionless with eyes fixed upon the ground.

Their firm healthy faces were covered with the first down of manhood, down which had, as yet, never known a razor. They were a couple of stout lads who still looked bashful, as became youths recently released from the seminary. His sons had but just dismounted from their horses. With such words did old Bulba greet his two sons, who had been absent for their education at the Royal Seminary of Kiev, and had now returned home to their father. ÂTurn round, my boy! How ridiculous you look! What sort of a priestâs cassock have you got on? Does everybody at the academy dress like that?â

Nikolai gogol bulba