“No, it is impossible,” he thought, not taking his eyes off the prisoner.  “Lubov!  How can it be?” he thought to himself, after hearing her answer.  The president was going to continue his questions, but the member with the spectacles interrupted him, angrily whispering something.  The president nodded, and turned again to the prisoner.

“How is this,” he said, “you are not put down here as Lubov?”

The prisoner remained silent.

“I want your real name.”

“What is your baptismal name?” asked the angry member.

“Formerly I used to be called Katerina.”

“No, it cannot be,” said Nekhludoff to himself; and yet he was now certain that this was she, that same girl, half ward, half servant to his aunts; that Katusha, with whom he had once been in love, really in love, but whom he had betrayed and then abandoned, and never again brought to mind, for the memory would have been too painful, would have convicted him too clearly, proving that he who was so proud of his integrity had treated this woman in a revolting, scandalous way.

Yes, this was she.  He now clearly saw in her face that strange, indescribable individuality which distinguishes every face from all others; something peculiar, all its own, not to be found anywhere else.  In spite of the unhealthy pallor and the fulness of the face, it was there, this sweet, peculiar individuality; on those lips, in the slight squint of her eyes, in the voice, particularly in the naive smile, and in the expression of readiness on the face and figure.

“You should have said so,” remarked the president, again in a gentle tone.  “Your patronymic?”

“I am illegitimate.”

“Well, were you not called by your godfather’s name?”

“Yes, Mikhaelovna.”

“And what is it she can be guilty of?” continued Nekhludoff, in his mind, unable to breathe freely.

“Your family name—­your surname, I mean?” the president went on.

“They used to call me by my mother’s surname, Maslova.”

“What class?”

“Meschanka.” [the lowest town class or grade]

“Religion—­orthodox?”

“Orthodox.”

“Occupation.  What was your occupation?”

Maslova remained silent.

“What was your employment?”

“You know yourself,” she said, and smiled.  Then, casting a hurried look round the room, again turned her eyes on the president.

There was something so unusual in the expression of her face, so terrible and piteous in the meaning of the words she had uttered, in this smile, and in the furtive glance she had cast round the room, that the president was abashed, and for a few minutes silence reigned in the court.  The silence was broken by some one among the public laughing, then somebody said “Ssh,” and the president looked up and continued: 

“Have you ever been tried before?”

“Never,” answered Maslova, softly, and sighed.