"Yes, yes," Nekhludoff said, with a sense of confusion, and felt for his purse.
She looked rapidly at the inspector, who was walking up and down the room.
"Don't give it in front of him; he'd take it away."
Nekhludoff took out his purse as soon as the inspector had turned his back; but had no time to hand her the note before the inspector faced them again, so he crushed it up in his hand.
"This woman is dead," Nekhludoff thought, looking at this once sweet, and now defiled, puffy face, lit up by an evil glitter in the black, squinting eyes which were now glancing at the hand in which he held the note, then following the inspector's movements, and for a moment he hesitated.
The tempter that had been speaking to him in the night again raised its voice, trying to lead him out of the realm of his inner into the realm of his outer life, away from the question of what he should do to the question of what the consequences would be, and what would be practical.
"You can do nothing with this woman," said the voice; "you will only tie a stone round your neck, which will help to drown you and hinder you from being useful to others.
"Is it not better to give her all the money that is here, say good-bye, and finish with her forever?" whispered the voice.
But here he felt that now, at this very moment, something most important was taking place in his soul—that his inner life was, as it were, wavering in the balance, so that the slightest effort would make it sink to this side or the other.
And he made this effort by calling to his assistance that God whom he had felt in his soul the day before, and that God instantly responded.
He resolved to tell her everything now—at once.
"Katusha, I have come to ask you to forgive me, and you have given me no answer. Have you forgiven me? Will you ever forgive me?" he asked.
She did not listen to him, but looked at his hand and at the inspector, and when the latter turned she hastily stretched out her hand, grasped the note, and hid it under her belt.
"That's odd, what you are saying there," she said, with a smile of contempt, as it seemed to him.
Nekhludoff felt that there was in her soul one who was his enemy and who was protecting her, such as she was now, and preventing him from getting at her heart.
But, strange to say, this did not repel him, but drew him nearer to her by some fresh, peculiar power.
He knew that he must waken her soul, that this was terribly difficult, but the very difficulty attracted him.
He now felt towards her as he had never felt towards her or any one else before. There was nothing personal in this feeling: he wanted nothing from her for himself, but only wished that she might not remain as she now was, that she might awaken and become again what she had been.
"Katusha, why do you speak like that?
I know you; I remember you—and the old days in Papovo."
"What's the use of recalling what's past?" she remarked, drily.
"I am recalling it in order to put it right, to atone for my sin, Katusha," and he was going to say that he would marry her, but, meeting her eyes, he read in them something so dreadful, so coarse, so repellent, that he could not go on.
At this moment the visitors began to go.
The inspector came up to Nekhludoff and said that the time was up.
"Good-bye; I have still much to say to you, but you see it is impossible to do so now," said Nekhludoff, and held out his hand. "I shall come again."
"I think you have said all."
She took his hand but did not press it.
"No; I shall try to see you again, somewhere where we can talk, and then I shall tell you what I have to say-something very important."
"Well, then, come; why not?" she answered, and smiled with that habitual, inviting, and promising smile which she gave to the men whom she wished to please.
"You are more than a sister to me," said Nekhludoff.
"That's odd," she said again, and went behind the grating.
CHAPTER XLIV. MASLOVA'S VIEW OF LIFE.
Before the first interview, Nekhludoff thought that when she saw him and knew of his intention to serve her, Katusha would be pleased and touched, and would be Katusha again; but, to his horror, he found that Katusha existed no more, and there was Maslova in her place.
This astonished and horrified him.
What astonished him most was that Katusha was not ashamed of her position—not the position of a prisoner (she was ashamed of that), but her position as a prostitute. She seemed satisfied, even proud of it.
And, yet, how could it be otherwise?
Everybody, in order to be able to act, has to consider his occupation important and good.
Therefore, in whatever position a person is, he is certain to form such a view of the life of men in general which will make his occupation seem important and good.
It is usually imagined that a thief, a murderer, a spy, a prostitute, acknowledging his or her profession as evil, is ashamed of it.
But the contrary is true.
People whom fate and their sin-mistakes have placed in a certain position, however false that position may be, form a view of life in general which makes their position seem good and admissible.
In order to keep up their view of life, these people instinctively keep to the circle of those people who share their views of life and their own place in it.
This surprises us, where the persons concerned are thieves, bragging about their dexterity, prostitutes vaunting their depravity, or murderers boasting of their cruelty.
This surprises us only because the circle, the atmosphere in which these people live, is limited, and we are outside it.
But can we not observe the same phenomenon when the rich boast of their wealth, i.e., robbery; the commanders in the army pride themselves on victories, i.e., murder; and those in high places vaunt their power, i.e., violence?
We do not see the perversion in the views of life held by these people, only because the circle formed by them is more extensive, and we ourselves are moving inside of it.
And in this manner Maslova had formed her views of life and of her own position.
She was a prostitute condemned to Siberia, and yet she had a conception of life which made it possible for her to be satisfied with herself, and even to pride herself on her position before others.
According to this conception, the highest good for all men without exception—old, young, schoolboys, generals, educated and uneducated, was connected with the relation of the sexes; therefore, all men, even when they pretended to be occupied with other things, in reality took this view.
She was an attractive woman, and therefore she was an important and necessary person.