Nothing to be seen, not a sound to be heard.... He looked round him, and noticed that the faint light that filled the room came from a night-light, shaded by a sheet of paper and set in a corner, probably by Platosha while he was asleep. He even discerned the smell of incense ... also, most likely, the work of her hands. He hurriedly dressed himself: to remain in bed, to sleep, was not to be thought of. Then he took his stand in the middle of the room, and folded his arms. The sense of Clara’s presence was stronger in him than it had ever been. And now he began to speak, not loudly, but with solemn deliberation, as though he were uttering an incantation. ‘Clara,’ he began, ‘if you are truly here, if you see me, if you hear me--show yourself!... If the power which I feel over me is truly your power, show yourself! If you understand how bitterly I repent that I did not understand you, that I repelled you--show yourself! If what I have heard was truly your voice; if the feeling overmastering me is love; if you are now convinced that I love you, I, who till now have neither loved nor known any woman; if you know that since your death I have come to love you passionately, inconsolably; if you do not want me to go mad,--show yourself, Clara!’ Aratov had hardly uttered this last word, when all at once he felt that some one was swiftly approaching him from behind--as that day on the boulevard--and laying a hand on his shoulder. He turned round, and saw no one. But the sense of _her_ presence had grown so distinct, so unmistakable, that once more he looked hurriedly about him.... What was that? On an easy-chair, two paces from him, sat a woman, all in black. Her head was turned away, as in the stereoscope.... It was she! It was Clara! But what a stern, sad face! Aratov slowly sank on his knees. Yes; he was right, then. He felt neither fear nor delight, not even astonishment.... His heart even began to beat more quietly. He had one sense, one feeling, ‘Ah! at last! at last!’ ‘Clara,’ he began, in a faint but steady voice, ‘why do you not look at me? I know that it is you ... but I may fancy my imagination has created an image like _that one_ ... ‘--he pointed towards the stereoscope--‘prove to me that it is you.... Turn to me, look at me, Clara!’ Clara’s hand slowly rose ... and fell again. ‘Clara! Clara! turn to me!’ And Clara’s head slowly turned, her closed lids opened, and her dark eyes fastened upon Aratov. He fell back a little, and uttered a single, long-drawn-out, trembling ‘Ah!’ Clara gazed fixedly at him ... but her eyes, her features, retained their former mournfully stern, almost displeased expression. With just that expression on her face she had come on to the platform on the day of the literary matinée, before she caught sight of Aratov. And, just as then, she suddenly flushed, her face brightened, her eyes kindled, and a joyful, triumphant smile parted her lips....