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.
