incoherent words mingled with sobs. He looked round and saw a girl
about twenty with an extremely pleasing but distressed and tear-stained
face. She seemed to have been overtaken by some great and unexpected
grief. She was running and stumbling as she ran, talking to herself,
exclaiming, gesticulating; her fair hair was in disorder and her shawl
(the burnous and the mantle were unknown in those days) had slipped off
her shoulders and was kept on by one pin. The girl was dressed like a
young lady, not like a workgirl.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch stepped aside; his feeling of compassion
overpowered his fear of doing something foolish and, when she caught
him up, he politely touched the peak of his shako, and asked her the
cause of her tears.
'For,' he added, and he laid his hand on his cutlass, 'I, as an
officer, may be able to help you.'
The girl stopped and apparently for the first moment did not clearly
understand what he wanted of her; but at once, as though glad of the
opportunity of expressing herself, began speaking in slightly
imperfect Russian.
'Oh, dear, Mr. Officer,' she began and tears rained down her charming
cheeks, 'it is beyond everything! It's awful, it is beyond words! We
have been robbed, the cook has carried off everything, everything,
everything, the dinner service, the lock-up box and our clothes....
Yes, even our clothes, and stockings and linen, yes ... and aunt's
reticule. There was a twenty-five-rouble note and two applique spoons
in it ... and her pelisse, too, and everything.... And I told all that
to the police officer and the police officer said, 'Go away, I don't
believe you, I don't believe you. I won't listen to you. You are the
same sort yourselves.' I said, 'Why, but the pelisse ...' and he, 'I
won't listen to you, I won't listen to you.' It was so insulting, Mr.
Officer! 'Go away,' he said, 'get along,' but where am I to go?'
The girl sobbed convulsively, almost wailing, and utterly distracted
leaned against Kuzma Vassilyevitch's sleeve.... He was overcome with
confusion in his turn and stood rooted to the spot, only repeating
from time to time, 'There, there!' while he gazed at the delicate nape
of the dishevelled damsel's neck, as it shook from her sobs.
'Will you let me see you home?' he said at last, lightly touching her
shoulder with his forefinger, 'here in the street, you understand, it
is quite impossible. You can explain your trouble to me and of course
I will make every effort ... as an officer.'
The girl raised her head and seemed for the first time to see the
young man who might be said to be holding her in his arms. She was
disconcerted, turned away, and still sobbing moved a little aside.
Kuzma Vassilyevitch repeated his suggestion. The girl looked at him
askance through her hair which had fallen over her face and was wet
with tears. (At this point Kuzma Vassilyevitch always assured us that
this glance pierced through him 'like an awl,' and even attempted once
to reproduce this marvellous glance for our benefit) and laying her
hand within the crooked arm of the obliging lieutenant, set off with
him for her lodging.
V
Kuzma Vassilyevitch had had very little to do with ladies and so was
at a loss how to begin the conversation, but his companion chattered
away very fluently, continually drying her eyes and shedding fresh
tears. Within a few minutes Kuzma Vassilyevitch had learnt that her
