ortance,
but he had long had a grudge against his son, and was delighted at an
opportunity of humiliating the town-bred wit and dandy. A storm of
fuss and clamour was raised; Malanya was locked up in the pantry, Ivan
Petrovitch was summoned into his father's presence. Anna Pavlovna too
ran up at the hubbub. She began trying to pacify her husband, but Piotr
Andreitch would hear nothing. He pounced down like a hawk on his son,
reproached him with immorality, with godlessness, with hypocrisy; he
took the opportunity to vent on him all the wrath against the Princess
Kubensky that had been simmering within him, and lavished abusive
epithets upon him. At first Ivan Petrovitch was silent and held himself
in, but when his father thought to fit to threaten him with a shameful
punishment he could endure it no longer. "Ah," he thought, "the fanatic
Diderot is brought out again, then I will take the bull by the horns, I
will astonish you all." And thereupon with a calm and even voice, though
quaking inwardly in every limb, Ivan Petrovitch declared to his father,
that there was no need to reproach him with immorality; that though he
did not intend to justify his fault he was ready to make amends for it,
the more willingly as he felt himself to be superior to every kind of
prejudice--and in fact--was ready to marry Malanya. In uttering
these words Ivan Petrovitch did undoubtedly attain his object; he so
astonished Piotr Andreitch that the latter stood open-eyed, and was
struck dumb for a moment; but instantly he came to himself, and just as
he was, in a dressing-gown bordered with squirrel fur and slippers on
his bare feet, he flew at Ivan Petrovitch with his fists. The latter,
as though by design, had that morning arranged his locks a la Titus,
and put on a new English coat of a blue colour, high boots with little
tassels and very tight modish buckskin breeches. Anna Pavlovna shrieked
with all her might and covered her face with her hands; but her son ran
over the whole house, dashed out into the courtyard, rushed into the
kitchen-garden, into the pleasure-grounds, and flew across into the
road, and kept running without looking round till at last he ceased to
hear the heavy tramp of his father's steps behind him and his shouts,
jerked out with effort, "Stop you scoundrel!" he cried, "stop! or I
will curse you!" Ivan Petrovitch took refuge with a neighbour, a small
landowner, and Piotr Andreitch returned home worn out and perspiring,