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....

"I am forgiven!"--cried Aratoff.--"Thou hast conquered.... So take me!
For I am thine, and thou art mine!"

He darted toward her, he tried to kiss those smiling, those triumphant
lips,--and he did kiss them, he felt their burning touch, he felt even
the moist chill of her teeth, and a rapturous cry rang through the
half-dark room.

Platonida Ivanovna ran in and found him in a swoon. He was on his knees;
his head was lying on the arm-chair; his arms, outstretched before him,
hung powerless; his pale face breathed forth the intoxication of
boundless happiness.

Platonida Ivanovna threw herself beside him, embraced him, stammered:
"Yasha! Yashenka! Yashenyonotchek!!"[67] tried to lift him up with her
bony arms ... he did not stir. Then Platonida Ivanovna set to screaming
in an unrecognisable voice. The maid-servant ran in. Together they
managed somehow to lift him up, seated him in a chair, and began to dash
water on him--and water in which a holy image had been washed at
that....

He came to himself; but merely smiled in reply to his aunt's queries,
and with such a blissful aspect that she became more perturbed than
ever, and kept crossing first him and then herself.... At last Aratoff
pushed away her hand, and still with the same beatific expression on his
countenance, he said:--

"What is the matter with you, Platosha?"

"What ails thee, Yashenka?"

"Me?--I am happy ... happy, Platosha ..