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Aratoff awoke all in a tremble. It was not dark in the room…. A faint and melancholy light streamed from somewhere or other, impassively illuminating all objects. Aratoff did not try to account to himself for the light…. He felt but one thing: Clara was there in that room … he felt her presence … he was again and forever in her power!

A shriek burst from his lips: “Clara, art thou here?”

“Yes!” rang out clearly in the middle of the room illuminated with the motionless light.

Aratoff doubly repeated his question….

“Yes!” was audible once more.

“Then I want to see thee!” he cried, springing out of bed.

For several moments he stood in one spot, treading the cold floor with his bare feet. His eyes roved: “But where? Where?” whispered his lips….

Nothing was to be seen or heard.

He looked about him, and noticed that the faint light which filled the room proceeded from a night-light, screened by a sheet of paper, and placed in one corner, probably by Platosha while he was asleep. He even detected the odour of incense also, in all probability, the work of her hands.

He hastily dressed himself. Remaining in bed, sleeping, was not to be thought of.–Then he took up his stand in the centre of the room and folded his arms. The consciousness of Clara’s presence was stronger than ever within him.

And now he began to speak, in a voice which was not loud, but with the solemn deliberation wherewith exorcisms are uttered:

“Clara,”–thus did he begin,–“if thou art really here, if thou seest me, if thou hearest me, reveal thyself!… If that power which I feel upon me is really thy power,–reveal thyself! If thou understandest how bitterly I repent of not having understood thee, of having repulsed thee,–reveal thyself!–If that which I have heard is really thy voice; if the feeling which has taken possession of me is love; if thou art now convinced that I love thee,–I who up to this time have not loved, and have not known a single woman;–if thou knowest that after thy death I fell passionately, irresistibly in love with thee, if thou dost not wish me to go mad–reveal thyself!”

No sooner had Aratoff uttered this last word than he suddenly felt some one swiftly approach him from behind, as on that occasion upon the boulevard–and lay a hand upon his shoulder. He wheeled round–and saw no one. But the consciousness of her presence became so distinct, so indubitable, that he cast another hasty glance behind him….

What was that?! In his arm-chair, a couple of paces from him, sat a woman all in black. Her head was bent to one side, as in the stereoscope…. It was she! It was Clara! But what a stern, what a mournful face!

Aratoff sank down gently upon his knees.–Yes, he was right, then; neither fear, nor joy was in him, nor even surprise…. His heart even began to beat more quietly;–The only thing in him was the feeling: “Ah! At last! At last!”

“Clara,” he began in a faint but even tone, “why dost thou not look at me? I know it is thou … but I might, seest thou, think that my imagination had created an image like that one….” (He pointed in the direction of the stereoscope)…. “Prove to me that it is thou…. Turn toward me, look at me, Clara!”

Clara’s hand rose slowly … and fell again.

“Clara! Clara! Turn toward me!”

And Clara’s head turned slowly, her drooping lids opened, and the dark pupils of her eyes were fixed on Aratoff.

He started back, and uttered a tremulous, long-drawn: “Ah!”

Clara gazed intently at him … but her eyes, her features preserved their original thoughtfully-stern, almost displeased expression. With precisely that expression she had presented herself on the platform upon the day of the literary morning, before she had caught sight of Aratoff. And now, as on that occasion also, she suddenly flushed scarlet, her face grew animated, her glance flashed, and a joyful, triumphant smile parted her lips….