‘Is Mr. Harlov living?’ I asked Prokofy. The chase had so completely absorbed us, that up to that instant we had not talked of anything.
‘Yes, he’s alive. Why?’
‘But that’s his mare, isn’t it? Do you mean to say he’s sold her?’
‘His mare it is, to be sure; but as to selling, he never sold her. But they took her away from him, and handed her over to that peasant.’
‘How, took it? And he consented?’
‘They never asked his consent. Things have changed here in your absence,’ Prokofy observed. With a faint smile in response to my look of amazement; ‘worse luck! My goodness, yes! Now Sletkin’s master, and orders every one about.’
‘But Martin Petrovitch?’
‘Why, Martin Petrovitch has become the very last person here, you may say. He’s on bread and water,—what more can one say? They’ve crushed him altogether. Mark my words; they’ll drive him out of the house.’
The idea that it was possible to drive such a giant had never entered my head. ‘And what does Zhitkov say to it?’ I asked at last. ‘I suppose he’s married to the second daughter?’
‘Married?’ repeated Prokofy, and this time he grinned all over his face. ‘They won’t let him into the house. “We don’t want you,” they say; “get along home with you.” It’s as I said; Sletkin directs every one.’