nodded his head approvingly. He emptied one tumbler after another and
grew warmer and warmer and more and more comfortable. The talk continued
on the same subject for a long time--the harmfulness of a household
dividing up--and it was clearly not an abstract discussion but concerned
the question of a separation in that house; a separation demanded by the
second son who sat there morosely silent.

It was evidently a sore subject and absorbed them all, but out of
propriety they did not discuss their private affairs before strangers.
At last, however, the old man could not restrain himself, and with tears
in his eyes declared that he would not consent to a break-up of the
family during his lifetime, that his house was prospering, thank God,
but that if they separated they would all have to go begging.

'Just like the Matveevs,' said the neighbour. 'They used to have a
proper house, but now they've split up none of them has anything.'

'And that is what you want to happen to us,' said the old man, turning
to his son.

The son made no reply and there was an awkward pause. The silence was
broken by Petrushka, who having harnessed the horse had returned to the
hut a few minutes before this and had been listening all the time with a
smile.

'There's a fable about that in Paulson,' he said. 'A father gave his
sons a broom to break. At first they could not break it, but when they
took it twig by twig they broke it easily. And it's the same here,' and
he gave a broad smile. 'I'm ready!' he added.