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!'
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