PART VI.

[Footnote 6.1: This was Ferdinand II., a member of the illustrious

Florentine family of the Medici. He upheld the family tradition by his

liberal patronage of science and letters.]

[Footnote 6.2: Evangelista Torricelli, the successor of the great

Galileo in the chair of philosophy and mathematics at Florence, is

inseparably associated with the discovery that water in a suction-pump

will only rise to the height of about thirty-two feet. This paved the

way to his invention of the barometer in 1643.

Other members of the Accademia de' Percossi were Dati, Lippi, Viviani,

Bandinelli, &c.]

[Footnote 6.3: An allusion to the well-known nepotism of the Popes. The

man here mentioned is one of the Barberini, nephew of Pope Urban VIII.]

[Footnote 6.4: _Cetonia aurata_, L., called also the gold-chafer; it is

coloured green and gold.]

[Footnote 6.5: The painter Salvator Rosa did really play at Rome the

_role_ of Pasquarello here attributed to him; but it was on the

occasion of his second visit to the Eternal City about 1639. On the

other hand, it was after 1647 (the year of Masaniello's revolt at

Naples) that Salvator again came to Rome (the third visit), where he

stayed until he was obliged to flee farther, namely, to Florence, in

consequence of the two pictures already mentioned. It seems evident

therefore that Hoffmann has not troubled himself about his dates, or

strict historical fidelity, but seems rather to have combined the

incidents of the painter's two visits to Rome--_i.e._, his second and

his third visit.]

THE SAND-MAN.[1]

NATHANAEL TO LOTHAIR.

I know you are all very uneasy because I have not written for such a

long, long time. Mother, to be sure, is angry, and Clara, I dare say,

believes I am living here in riot and revelry, and quite forgetting my

sweet angel, whose image is so deeply engraved upon my heart and mind.

But that is not so; daily and hourly do I think of you all, and my

lovely Clara's form comes to gladden me in my dreams, and smiles upon

me with her bright eyes, as graciously as she used to do in the days

when I went in and out amongst you. Oh! how could I write to you in the

distracted state of mind in which I have been, and which, until now,

has quite bewildered me! A terrible thing has happened to me. Dark

forebodings of some awful fate threatening me are spreading themselves

out over my head like black clouds, impenetrable to every friendly ray

of sunlight. I must now tell you what has taken place; I must, that I

see well enough, but only to think upon it makes the wild laughter

burst from my lips. Oh! my dear, dear Lothair, what shall I say to make

you feel, if only in an inadequate way, that that which happened to me

a few days ago could thus really exercise such a hostile and disturbing

influence upon my life? Oh that you were here to see for yourself! but

now you will, I suppose, take me for a superstitious ghost-seer. In a

word, the terrible thing which I have experienced, the fatal effect of

which I in vain exert every effort to shake off, is simply that some

days ago, namely, on the 30th October, at twelve o'clock at noon, a

dealer in weather-glasses came into my room and wanted to sell me one

of his wares. I bought nothing, and threatened to kick him downstairs,

whereupon he went away of his own accord.

You will conclude that it can only be very peculiar relations--

relations intimately intertwined with my life--that can give

significance to this event, and that it must be the person of this

unfortunate hawker which has had such a very inimical effect upon me.

And so it really is. I will summon up all my faculties in order to

narrate to you calmly and patiently as much of the early days of my

youth as will suffice to put matters before you in such a way that your

keen sharp intellect may grasp everything clearly and distinctly, in

bright and living pictures. Just as I am beginning, I hear you laugh

and Clara say, "What's all this childish nonsense about!" Well, laugh

at me, laugh heartily at me, pray do. But, good God! my hair is

standing on end, and I seem to be entreating you to laugh at me in the

same sort of frantic despair in which Franz Moor entreated Daniel to

laugh him to scorn.[2] But to my story.

Except at dinner we, _i.e._, I and my brothers and sisters, saw but

little of our father all day long. His business no doubt took up most

of his time. After our evening meal, which, in accordance with an old

custom, was served at seven o'clock, we all went, mother with us, into

father's room, and took our places around a round table. My father

smoked his pipe, drinking a large glass of beer to it. Often he told us

many wonderful stories, and got so excited over them that his pipe

always went out; I used then to light it for him with a spill, and this

formed my chief amusement. Often, again, he would give us picture-books

to look at, whilst he sat silent and motionless in his easy-chair,

puffing out such dense clouds of smoke that we were all as it were

enveloped in mist. On such evenings mother was very sad; and directly

it struck nine she said, "Come, children! off to bed! Come! The

'Sand-man' is come I see." And I always did seem to hear something

trampling upstairs with slow heavy steps; that must be the Sand-man.

Once in particular I was very much frightened at this dull trampling

and knocking; as mother was leading us out of the room I asked her, "O

mamma! but who is this nasty Sand-man who always sends us away from

papa? What does he look like?" "There is no Sand-man, my dear child,"

mother answered; "when I say the Sand-man is come, I only mean that you

are sleepy and can't keep your eyes open, as if somebody had put sand

in them." This answer of mother's did not satisfy me; nay, in my

childish mind the thought clearly unfolded itself that mother denied

there was a Sand-man only to prevent us being afraid,--why, I always

heard him come upstairs. Full of curiosity to learn something more

about this Sand-man and what he had to do with us children, I at length

asked the old woman who acted as my youngest sister's attendant, what

sort of a man he was--the Sand-man? "Why, 'thanael, darling, don't you

know?" she replied. "Oh! he's a wicked man, who comes to little

children when they won't go to bed and throws handfuls of sand in their

eyes, so that they jump out of their heads all bloody; and he puts them

into a bag and takes them to the half-moon as food for his little ones;

and they sit there in the nest and have hooked beaks like owls, and

they pick naughty little boys' and girls' eyes out with them." After

this I formed in my own mind a horrible picture of the cruel Sand-man.

When anything came blundering upstairs at night I trembled with fear

and dismay; and all that my mother could get out of me were the

stammered words "The Sandman! the Sand-man!" whilst the tears coursed

down my cheeks. Then I ran into my bedroom, and the whole night through

tormented myself with the terrible apparition of the Sand-man. I

was quite old enough to perceive that the old woman's tale about the

Sand-man and his little ones' nest in the half-moon couldn't be

altogether true; nevertheless the Sand-man continued to be for me a

fearful incubus, and I was always seized with terror--my blood always

ran cold, not only when I heard anybody come up the stairs, but when I

heard anybody noisily open my father's room door and go in. Often he

stayed away for a long season altogether; then he would come several

times in close succession.

This went on for years, without my being able to accustom myself to

this fearful apparition, without the image of the horrible Sand-man

growing any fainter in my imagination. His intercourse with my father

began to occupy my fancy ever more and more; I was restrained from

asking my father about him by an unconquerable shyness; but as the

years went on the desire waxed stronger and stronger within me to

fathom the mystery myself and to see the fabulous Sand-man. He had been

the means of disclosing to me the path of the wonderful and the

adventurous, which so easily find lodgment in the mind of the child. I

liked nothing better than to hear or read horrible stories of goblins,

witches, Tom Thumbs, and so on; but always at the head of them all

stood the Sand-man, whose picture I scribbled in the most extraordinary

and repulsive forms with both chalk and coal everywhere, on the tables,

and cupboard doors, and walls. When I was ten years old my mother

removed me from the nursery into a little chamber off the corridor not

far from my father's room. We still had to withdraw hastily whenever,

on the stroke of nine, the mysterious unknown was heard in the house.

As I lay in my little chamber I could hear him go into father's room,

and soon afterwards I fancied there was a fine and peculiar smelling

steam spreading itself through the house. As my curiosity waxed

stronger, my resolve to make somehow or other the Sand-man's

acquaintance took deeper root. Often when my mother had gone past, I

slipped quickly out of my room into the corridor, but I could never see

anything, for always before I could reach the place where I could get

sight of him, the Sand-man was well inside the door. At last, unable to

resist the impulse any longer, I determined to conceal myself in

father's room and there wait for the Sand-man.

One evening I perceived from my father's silence and mother's sadness

that the Sand-man would come; accordingly, pleading that I was

excessively tired, I left the room before nine o'clock and concealed

myself in a hiding-place close beside the door. The street door

creaked, and slow, heavy, echoing steps crossed the passage towards

the stairs. Mother hurried past me with my brothers and sisters.

Softly--softly--I opened father's room door. He sat as usual, silent

and motionless, with his back towards it; he did not hear me; and in a

moment I was in and behind a curtain drawn before my father's open

wardrobe, which stood just inside the room. Nearer and nearer and

nearer came the echoing footsteps. There was a strange coughing and

shuffling and mumbling outside. My heart beat with expectation and

fear. A quick step now close, close beside the door, a noisy rattle of

the handle, and the door flies open with a bang. Recovering my courage

with an effort, I take a cautious peep out. In the middle of the room

in front of my father stands the Sand-man, the bright light of the lamp

falling full upon his face. The Sand-man, the terrible Sand-man, is the

old advocate _Coppelius_ who often comes to dine with us.

But the most hideous figure could not have awakened greater trepidation

in my heart than this Coppelius did. Picture to yourself a large

broad-shouldered man, with an immensely big head, a face the colour of

yellow-ochre, grey bushy eyebrows, from beneath which two piercing,

greenish, cat-like eyes glittered, and a prominent Roman nose hanging

over his upper lip. His distorted mouth was often screwed up into a

malicious smile; then two dark-red spots appeared on his cheeks, and a

strange hissing noise proceeded from between his tightly clenched

teeth. He always wore an ash-grey coat of an old-fashioned cut, a

waistcoat of the same, and nether extremities to match, but black

stockings and buckles set with stones on his shoes. His little wig

scarcely extended beyond the crown of his head, his hair was curled

round high up above his big red ears, and plastered to his temples with

cosmetic, and a broad closed hair-bag stood out prominently from his

neck, so that you could see the silver buckle that fastened his folded

neck-cloth. Altogether he was a most disagreeable and horribly ugly

figure; but what we children detested most of all was his big coarse

hairy hands; we could never fancy anything that he had once touched.

This he had noticed; and so, whenever our good mother quietly placed a

piece of cake or sweet fruit on our plates, he delighted to touch it

under some pretext or other, until the bright tears stood in our eyes,

and from disgust and loathing we lost the enjoyment of the tit-bit that

was intended to please us. And he did just the same thing when father

gave us a glass of sweet wine on holidays. Then he would quickly pass

his hand over it, or even sometimes raise the glass to his blue lips,

and he laughed quite sardonically when all we dared do was to express

our vexation in stifled sobs. He habitually called us the "little

brutes;" and when he was present we might not utter a sound; and we

cursed the ugly spiteful man who deliberately and intentionally spoilt

all our little pleasures. Mother seemed to dislike this hateful

Coppelius as much as we did; for as soon as he appeared her

cheerfulness and bright and natural manner were transformed into sad,

gloomy seriousness. Father treated him as if he were a being of some

higher race, whose ill-manners were to be tolerated, whilst no efforts

ought to be spared to keep him in good-humour. He had only to give a

slight hint, and his favourite dishes were cooked for him and rare wine

uncorked.

As soon as I saw this Coppelius, therefore, the fearful and hideous

thought arose in my mind that he, and he alone, must be the Sand-man;

but I no longer conceived of the Sand-man as the bugbear in the

old nurse's fable, who fetched children's eyes and took them to the

half-moon as food for his little ones--no! but as an ugly spectre-like

fiend bringing trouble and misery and ruin, both temporal and

everlasting, everywhere wherever he appeared.

I was spell-bound on the spot. At the risk of being discovered, and, as

I well enough knew, of being severely punished, I remained as I was,

with my head thrust through the curtains listening. My father received

Coppelius in a ceremonious manner. "Come, to work!" cried the latter,

in a hoarse snarling voice, throwing off his coat. Gloomily and

silently my father took off his dressing-gown, and both put on long

black smock-frocks. Where they took them from I forgot to notice.

Father opened the folding-doors of a cupboard in the wall; but I saw

that what I had so long taken to be a cupboard was really a dark

recess, in which was a little hearth. Coppelius approached it, and a

blue flame crackled upwards from it. Round about were all kinds of

strange utensils. Good God! as my old father bent down over the fire

how different he looked! His gentle and venerable features seemed to be

drawn up by some dreadful convulsive pain into an ugly, repulsive

Satanic mask. He looked like Coppelius. Coppelius plied the red-hot

tongs and drew bright glowing masses out of the thick smoke and began

assiduously to hammer them. I fancied that there were men's faces

visible round about, but without eyes, having ghastly deep black holes

where the eyes should have been. "Eyes here! Eyes here!" cried

Coppelius, in a hollow sepulchral voice. My blood ran cold with horror;

I screamed and tumbled out of my hiding-place into the floor. Coppelius

immediately seized upon me. "You little brute! You little brute!" he

bleated, grinding his teeth. Then, snatching me up, he threw me on

the hearth, so that the flames began to singe my hair. "Now we've got

eyes--eyes--a beautiful pair of children's eyes," he whispered, and,

thrusting his hands into the flames he took out some red-hot grains and

was about to strew them into my eyes. Then my father clasped his hands

and entreated him, saying, "Master, master, let my Nathanael keep his

eyes--oh! do let him keep them." Coppelius laughed shrilly and replied,

"Well then, the boy may keep his eyes and whine and pule his way

through the world; but we will now at any rate observe the mechanism of

the hand and the foot." And therewith he roughly laid hold upon me, so

that my joints cracked, and twisted my hands and my feet, pulling them

now this way, and now that, "That's not quite right altogether! It's

better as it was!--the old fellow knew what he was about." Thus lisped

and hissed Coppelius; but all around me grew black and dark; a sudden

convulsive pain shot through all my nerves and bones; I knew nothing

more.

I felt a soft warm breath fanning my cheek; I awakened as if out of the

sleep of death; my mother was bending over me. "Is the Sand-man still

there?" I stammered. "No, my dear child; he's been gone a long, long

time; he'll not hurt you." Thus spoke my mother, as she kissed her

recovered darling and pressed him to her heart. But why should I tire

you, my dear Lothair? why do I dwell at such length on these details,

when there's so much remains to be said? Enough--I was detected in my

eavesdropping, and roughly handled by Coppelius. Fear and terror had

brought on a violent fever, of which I lay ill several weeks. "Is the

Sand-man still there?" these were the first words I uttered on coming

to myself again, the first sign of my recovery, of my safety. Thus, you

see, I have only to relate to you the most terrible moment of my youth

for you to thoroughly understand that it must not be ascribed to the

weakness of my eyesight if all that I see is colourless, but to the

fact that a mysterious destiny has hung a dark veil of clouds about my

life, which I shall perhaps only break through when I die.

Coppelius did not show himself again; it was reported he had left the

town.

It was about a year later when, in pursuance of the old unchanged

custom, we sat around the round table in the evening. Father was in

very good spirits, and was telling us amusing tales about his youthful

travels. As it was striking nine we all at once heard the street door

creak on its hinges, and slow ponderous steps echoed across the passage

and up the stairs. "That is Coppelius," said my mother, turning pale.

"Yes, it is Coppelius," replied my father in a faint broken voice. The

tears started from my mother's eyes. "But, father, father," she cried,

"must it be so?" "This is the last time," he replied; "this is the

last time he will come to me, I promise you. Go now, go and take the

children. Go, go to bed--good-night."

As for me, I felt as if I were converted into cold, heavy stone; I

could not get my breath. As I stood there immovable my mother seized me

by the arm. "Come, Nathanael! do come along!" I suffered myself to be

led away; I went into my room. "Be a good boy and keep quiet," mother

called after me; "get into bed and go to sleep." But, tortured by

indescribable fear and uneasiness, I could not close my eyes. That

hateful, hideous Coppelius stood before me with his glittering eyes,

smiling maliciously down upon me; in vain did I strive to banish the

image. Somewhere about midnight there was a terrific crack, as if a

cannon were being fired off. The whole house shook; something went

rustling and clattering past my door; the house-door was pulled to with

a bang. "That is Coppelius," I cried, terror-struck, and leapt out of

bed. Then I heard a wild heartrending scream; I rushed into my father's

room; the door stood open, and clouds of suffocating smoke came rolling

towards me. The servant-maid shouted, "Oh! my master! my master!" On

the floor in front of the smoking hearth lay my father, dead, his face

burned black and fearfully distorted, my sisters weeping and moaning

around him, and my mother lying near them in a swoon. "Coppelius, you

atrocious fiend, you've killed my father," I shouted. My senses left

me. Two days later, when my father was placed in his coffin, his

features were mild and gentle again as they had been when he was alive.

I found great consolation in the thought that his association with the

diabolical Coppelius could not have ended in his everlasting ruin.

Our neighbours had been awakened by the explosion; the affair got

talked about, and came before the magisterial authorities, who wished

to cite Coppelius to clear himself. But he had disappeared from the

place, leaving no traces behind him.

Now when I tell you, my dear friend, that the weather-glass hawker I

spoke of was the villain Coppelius, you will not blame me for seeing

impending mischief in his inauspicious reappearance. He was differently

dressed; but Coppelius's figure and features are too deeply impressed

upon my mind for me to be capable of making a mistake in the matter.

Moreover, he has not even changed his name. He proclaims himself here,

I learn, to be a Piedmontese mechanician, and styles himself Giuseppe

Coppola.

I am resolved to enter the lists against him and revenge my father's

death, let the consequences be what they may.

Don't say a word to mother about the reappearance of this odious

monster. Give my love to my darling Clara; I will write to her when I

am in a somewhat calmer frame of mind. Adieu, &c.

* * * * * *

CLARA TO NATHANAEL.

You are right, you have not written to me for a very long time, but

nevertheless I believe that I still retain a place in your mind and

thoughts. It is a proof that you were thinking a good deal about me

when you were sending off your last letter to brother Lothair, for

instead of directing it to him you directed it to me. With joy I tore

open the envelope, and did not perceive the mistake until I read the

words, "Oh! my dear, dear Lothair." Now I know I ought not to have read

any more of the letter, but ought to have given it to my brother. But

as you have so often in innocent raillery made it a sort of reproach

against me that I possessed such a calm, and, for a woman, cool-headed

temperament that I should be like the woman we read of--if the house

was threatening to tumble down, I should, before hastily fleeing, stop

to smooth down a crumple in the window-curtains--I need hardly tell you

that the beginning of your letter quite upset me. I could scarcely

breathe; there was a bright mist before my eyes. Oh! my darling

Nathanael! what could this terrible thing be that had happened?

Separation from you--never to see you again, the thought was like a

sharp knife in my heart. I read on and on. Your description of that

horrid Coppelius made my flesh creep. I now learnt for the first time

what a terrible and violent death your good old father died. Brother

Lothair, to whom I handed over his property, sought to comfort me, but

with little success. That horrid weather-glass hawker Giuseppe Coppola

followed me everywhere; and I am almost ashamed to confess it, but he

was able to disturb my sound and in general calm sleep with all sorts

of wonderful dream-shapes. But soon--the next day--I saw everything in

a different light. Oh! do not be angry with me, my best-beloved, if,

despite your strange presentiment that Coppelius will do you some

mischief, Lothair tells you I am in quite as good spirits, and just the

same as ever.

I will frankly confess, it seems to me that all that was fearsome and

terrible of which you speak, existed only in your own self, and that

the real true outer world had but little to do with it. I can quite

admit that old Coppelius may have been highly obnoxious to you

children, but your real detestation of him arose from the fact that he

hated children.

Naturally enough the gruesome Sand-man of the old nurse's story was

associated in your childish mind with old Coppelius, who, even though

you had not believed in the Sand-man, would have been to you a ghostly

bugbear, especially dangerous to children. His mysterious labours along

with your father at night-time were, I daresay, nothing more than

secret experiments in alchemy, with which your mother could not be over

well pleased, owing to the large sums of money that most likely were

thrown away upon them; and besides, your father, his mind full of the

deceptive striving after higher knowledge, may probably have become

rather indifferent to his family, as so often happens in the case of

such experimentalists. So also it is equally probable that your father

brought about his death by his own imprudence, and that Coppelius is

not to blame for it. I must tell you that yesterday I asked our

experienced neighbour, the chemist, whether in experiments of this kind

an explosion could take place which would have a momentarily fatal

effect. He said, "Oh, certainly!" and described to me in his prolix and

circumstantial way how it could be occasioned, mentioning at the same

time so many strange and funny words that I could not remember them at

all. Now I know you will be angry at your Clara, and will say, "Of the

Mysterious which often clasps man in its invisible arms there's not a

ray can find its way into this cold heart. She sees only the varied

surface of the things of the world, and, like the little child, is

pleased with the golden glittering fruit; at the kernel of which lies

the fatal poison."

Oh! my beloved Nathanael, do you believe then that the intuitive

prescience of a dark power working within us to our own ruin cannot

exist also in minds which are cheerful, natural, free from care? But

please forgive me that I, a simple girl, presume in any way to indicate

to you what I really think of such an inward strife. After all, I

should not find the proper words, and you would only laugh at me, not

because my thoughts were stupid, but because I was so foolish as to

attempt to tell them to you.

If there is a dark and hostile power which traitorously fixes a thread

in our hearts in order that, laying hold of it and drawing us by means

of it along a dangerous road to ruin, which otherwise we should not

have trod--if, I say, there is such a power, it must assume within us a

form like ourselves, nay, it must be ourselves; for only in that way

can we believe in it, and only so understood do we yield to it so far

that it is able to accomplish its secret purpose. So long as we have

sufficient firmness, fortified by cheerfulness, to always acknowledge

foreign hostile influences for what they really are, whilst we quietly

pursue the path pointed out to us by both inclination and calling, then

this mysterious power perishes in its futile struggles to attain the

form which is to be the reflected image of ourselves. It is also

certain, Lothair adds, that if we have once voluntarily given ourselves

up to this dark physical power, it often reproduces within us the

strange forms which the outer world throws in our way, so that thus it

is we ourselves who engender within ourselves the spirit which by some

remarkable delusion we imagine to speak in that outer form. It is the

phantom of our own self whose intimate relationship with, and whose

powerful influence upon our soul either plunges us into hell or

elevates us to heaven. Thus you will see, my beloved Nathanael, that I

and brother Lothair have well talked over the subject of dark powers

and forces; and now, after I have with some difficulty written down the

principal results of our discussion, they seem to me to contain many

really profound thoughts. Lothair's last words, however, I don't quite

understand altogether; I only dimly guess what he means; and yet I

cannot help thinking it is all very true, I beg you, dear, strive to

forget the ugly advocate Coppelius as well as the weather-glass hawker

Giuseppe Coppola. Try and convince yourself that these foreign

influences can have no power over you, that it is only the belief in

their hostile power which can in reality make them dangerous to you. If

every line of your letter did not betray the violent excitement of your

mind, and if I did not sympathise with your condition from the bottom

of my heart, I could in truth jest about the advocate Sand-man and

weather-glass hawker Coppelius. Pluck up your spirits! Be cheerful! I

have resolved to appear to you as your guardian-angel if that ugly man

Coppola should dare take it into his head to bother you in your dreams,

and drive him away with a good hearty laugh. I'm not afraid of him and

his nasty hands, not the least little bit; I won't let him either as

advocate spoil any dainty tit-bit I've taken, or as Sand-man rob me of

my eyes.

My darling, darling Nathanael,

Eternally your, &c. &c.

* * * * * *

NATHANAEL TO LOTHAIR.

I am very sorry that Clara opened and read my last letter to you; of

course the mistake is to be attributed to my own absence of mind. She

has written me a very deep philosophical letter, proving conclusively

that Coppelius and Coppola only exist in my own mind and are phantoms

of my own self, which will at once be dissipated, as soon as I look

upon them in that light. In very truth one can hardly believe that the

mind which so often sparkles in those bright, beautifully smiling,

childlike eyes of hers like a sweet lovely dream could draw such subtle

and scholastic distinctions. She also mentions your name. You have been

talking about me. I suppose you have been giving her lectures, since

she sifts and refines everything so acutely. But enough of this!

I must now tell you it is most certain that the weather-glass hawker

Giuseppe Coppola is not the advocate Coppelius. I am attending the

lectures of our recently appointed Professor of Physics, who, like the

distinguished naturalist,[3] is called Spalanzani, and is of Italian

origin. He has known Coppola for many years; and it is also easy to

tell from his accent that he really is a Piedmontese. Coppelius was a

German, though no honest German, I fancy. Nevertheless I am not quite

satisfied. You and Clara will perhaps take me for a gloomy dreamer, but

nohow can I get rid of the impression which Coppelius's cursed face

made upon me. I am glad to learn from Spalanzani that he has left the

town. This Professor Spalanzani is a very queer fish. He is a little

fat man, with prominent cheek-bones, thin nose, projecting lips, and

small piercing eyes. You cannot get a better picture of him than by

turning over one of the Berlin pocket-almanacs[4] and looking at

Cagliostro's[5] portrait engraved by Chodowiecki;[6] Spalanzani looks

just like him.

Once lately, as I went up the steps to his house, I perceived that

beside the curtain which generally covered a glass door there was a

small chink. What it was that excited my curiosity I cannot explain;

but I looked through. In the room I saw a female, tall, very slender,

but of perfect proportions, and splendidly dressed, sitting at a little

table, on which she had placed both her arms, her hands being folded

together. She sat opposite the door, so that I could easily see her

angelically beautiful face. She did not appear to notice me, and there

was moreover a strangely fixed look about her eyes, I might almost say

they appeared as if they had no power of vision; I thought she was

sleeping with her eyes open. I felt quite uncomfortable, and so I

slipped away quietly into the Professor's lecture-room, which was close

at hand. Afterwards I learnt that the figure which I had seen was

Spalanzani's daughter, Olimpia, whom he keeps locked in a most wicked

and unaccountable way, and no man is ever allowed to come near her.

Perhaps, however, there is after all, something peculiar about her;

perhaps she's an idiot or something of that sort. But why am I telling

you all this? I could have told you it all better and more in detail

when I see you. For in a fortnight I shall be amongst you. I must

see my dear sweet angel, my Clara, again. Then the little bit of

ill-temper, which, I must confess, took possession of me after her

fearfully sensible letter, will be blown away. And that is the reason

why I am not writing to her as well to-day. With all best wishes, &c.

* * * * * *

Nothing more strange and extraordinary can be imagined, gracious

reader, than what happened to my poor friend, the young student

Nathanael, and which I have undertaken to relate to you. Have you ever

lived to experience anything that completely took possession of your

heart and mind and thoughts to the utter exclusion of everything else?

All was seething and boiling within you; your blood, heated to fever

pitch, leapt through your veins and inflamed your cheeks. Your gaze was

so peculiar, as if seeking to grasp in empty space forms not seen of

any other eye, and all your words ended in sighs betokening some

mystery. Then your friends asked you, "What is the matter with you, my

dear friend? What do you see?" And, wishing to describe the inner

pictures in all their vivid colours, with their lights and their

shades, you in vain struggled to find words with which to express

yourself. But you felt as if you must gather up all the events that had

happened, wonderful, splendid, terrible, jocose, and awful, in the very

first word, so that the whole might be revealed by a single electric

discharge, so to speak. Yet every word and all that partook of the

nature of communication by intelligible sounds seemed to be

colourless, cold, and dead. Then you try and try again, and stutter and

stammer, whilst your friends' prosy questions strike like icy winds

upon your heart's hot fire until they extinguish it. But if, like a

bold painter, you had first sketched in a few audacious strokes the

outline of the picture you had in your soul, you would then easily have

been able to deepen and intensify the colours one after the other,

until the varied throng of living figures carried your friends away,

and they, like you, saw themselves in the midst of the scene that had

proceeded out of your own soul.

Strictly speaking, indulgent reader, I must indeed confess to you,

nobody has asked me for the history of young Nathanael; but you are

very well aware that I belong to that remarkable class of authors who,

when they are bearing anything about in their minds in the manner I

have just described, feel as if everybody who comes near them, and also

the whole world to boot, were asking, "Oh! what is it? Oh! do tell us,

my good sir?" Hence I was most powerfully impelled to narrate to you

Nathanael's ominous life. My soul was full of the elements of wonder

and extraordinary peculiarity in it; but, for this very reason, and

because it was necessary in the very beginning to dispose you,

indulgent reader, to bear with what is fantastic--and that is not a

little thing--I racked my brain to find a way of commencing the story

in a significant and original manner, calculated to arrest your

attention. To begin with "Once upon a time," the best beginning for a

story, seemed to me too tame; with "In the small country town S----

lived," rather better, at any rate allowing plenty of room to work up

to the climax; or to plunge at once _in medias res_, "'Go to the

devil!' cried the student Nathanael, his eyes blazing wildly with rage

and fear, when the weather-glass hawker Giuseppe Coppola"--well, that

is what I really had written, when I thought I detected something of

the ridiculous in Nathanael's wild glance; and the history is anything

but laughable. I could not find any words which seemed fitted to

reflect in even the feeblest degree the brightness of the colours of my

mental vision. I determined not to begin at all. So I pray you,

gracious reader, accept the three letters which my friend Lothair has

been so kind as to communicate to me as the outline of the picture,

into which I will endeavour to introduce more and more colour as I

proceed with my narrative. Perhaps, like a good portrait-painter, I may

succeed in depicting more than one figure in such wise that you will

recognise it as a good likeness without being acquainted with the

original, and feel as if you had very often seen the original with your

own bodily eyes. Perhaps, too, you will then believe that nothing is

more wonderful, nothing more fantastic than real life, and that all

that a writer can do is to present it as a dark reflection from a dim

cut mirror.

In order to make the very commencement more intelligible, it is

necessary to add to the letters that, soon after the death of

Nathanael's father, Clara and Lothair, the children of a distant

relative, who had likewise died, leaving them orphans, were taken by

Nathanael's mother into her own house. Clara and Nathanael conceived a

warm affection for each other, against which not the slightest

objection in the world could be urged. When therefore Nathanael left

home to prosecute his studies in G----, they were betrothed. It is from

G---- that his last letter is written, where he is attending the

lectures of Spalanzani, the distinguished Professor of Physics.

I might now proceed comfortably with my narration, did not at this

moment Clara's image rise up so vividly before my eyes that I cannot

turn them away from it, just as I never could when she looked upon me

and smiled so sweetly. Nowhere would she have passed for beautiful;

that was the unanimous opinion of all who professed to have any

technical knowledge of beauty. But whilst architects praised the pure

proportions of her figure and form, painters averred that her neck,

shoulders, and bosom were almost too chastely modelled, and yet, on the

other hand, one and all were in love with her glorious Magdalene hair,

and talked a good deal of nonsense about Battoni-like[7] colouring. One

of them, a veritable romanticist, strangely enough likened her eyes to

a lake by Ruisdael,[8] in which is reflected the pure azure of the

cloudless sky, the beauty of woods and flowers, and all the bright and

varied life of a living landscape. Poets and musicians went still

further and said, "What's all this talk about seas and reflections? How

can we look upon the girl without feeling that wonderful heavenly songs

and melodies beam upon us from her eyes, penetrating deep down into our

hearts, till all becomes awake and throbbing with emotion? And if we

cannot sing anything at all passable then, why, we are not worth much;

and this we can also plainly read in the rare smile which flits around

her lips when we have the hardihood to squeak out something in her

presence which we pretend to call singing, in spite of the fact that it

is nothing more than a few single notes confusedly linked together."

And it really was so. Clara had the powerful fancy of a bright,

innocent, unaffected child, a woman's deep and sympathetic heart, and

an understanding clear, sharp, and discriminating. Dreamers and

visionaries had but a bad time of it with her; for without saying very

much--she was not by nature of a talkative disposition--she plainly

asked, by her calm steady look, and rare ironical smile, "How can you

imagine, my dear friends, that I can take these fleeting shadowy images

for true living and breathing forms?" For this reason many found fault

with her as being cold, prosaic, and devoid of feeling; others,

however, who had reached a clearer and deeper conception of life, were

extremely fond of the intelligent, childlike, large-hearted girl But

none had such an affection for her as Nathanael, who was a zealous and

cheerful cultivator of the fields of science and art. Clara clung to

her lover with all her heart; the first clouds she encountered in life

were when he had to separate from her. With what delight did she fly

into his arms when, as he had promised in his last letter to Lothair,

he really came back to his native town and entered his mother's room!

And as Nathanael had foreseen, the moment he saw Clara again he no

longer thought about either the advocate Coppelius or her sensible

letter; his ill-humour had quite disappeared.

Nevertheless Nathanael was right when he told his friend Lothair that

the repulsive vendor of weather-glasses, Coppola, had exercised a fatal

and disturbing influence upon his life. It was quite patent to all; for

even during the first few days he showed that he was completely and

entirely changed. He gave himself up to gloomy reveries, and moreover

acted so strangely; they had never observed anything at all like it in

him before. Everything, even his own life, was to him but dreams and

presentiments. His constant theme was that every man who delusively

imagined himself to be free was merely the plaything of the cruel sport

of mysterious powers, and it was vain for man to resist them; he must

humbly submit to whatever destiny had decreed for him. He went so far

as to maintain that it was foolish to believe that a man could do

anything in art or science of his own accord; for the inspiration in

which alone any true artistic work could be done did not proceed from

the spirit within outwards, but was the result of the operation

directed inwards of some Higher Principle existing without and beyond

ourselves.

This mystic extravagance was in the highest degree repugnant to Clara's

clear intelligent mind, but it seemed vain to enter upon any attempt at

refutation. Yet when Nathanael went on to prove that Coppelius was the

Evil Principle which had entered into him and taken possession of him

at the time he was listening behind the curtain, and that this hateful

demon would in some terrible way ruin their happiness, then Clara grew

grave and said, "Yes, Nathanael. You are right; Coppelius is an Evil

Principle; he can do dreadful things, as bad as could a Satanic power

which should assume a living physical form, but only--only if you do

not banish him from your mind and thoughts. So long as you believe in

him he exists and is at work; your belief in him is his only power."

Whereupon Nathanael, quite angry because Clara would only grant the

existence of the demon in his own mind, began to dilate at large upon

the whole mystic doctrine of devils and awful powers, but Clara

abruptly broke off the theme by making, to Nathanael's very great

disgust, some quite commonplace remark. Such deep mysteries are sealed

books to cold, unsusceptible characters, he thought, without being

clearly conscious to himself that he counted Clara amongst these

inferior natures, and accordingly he did not remit his efforts to

initiate her into these mysteries. In the morning, when she was helping

to prepare breakfast, he would take his stand beside her, and read all

sorts of mystic books to her, until she begged him--"But, my dear

Nathanael, I shall have to scold you as the Evil Principle which

exercises a fatal influence upon my coffee. For if I do as you wish,

and let things go their own way, and look into your eyes whilst you

read, the coffee will all boil over into the fire, and you will none of

you get any breakfast." Then Nathanael hastily banged the book to and

ran away in great displeasure to his own room.

Formerly he had possessed a peculiar talent for writing pleasing,

sparkling tales, which Clara took the greatest delight in listening to;

but now his productions were gloomy, unintelligible, and wanting in

form, so that, although Clara out of forbearance towards him did not

say so, he nevertheless felt how very little interest she took in them.

There was nothing that Clara disliked so much as what was tedious; at

such times her intellectual sleepiness was not to be overcome; it was

betrayed both in her glances and in her words. Nathanael's effusions

were, in truth, exceedingly tedious. His ill-humour at Clara's cold

prosaic temperament continued to increase; Clara could not conceal her

distaste of his dark, gloomy, wearying mysticism; and thus both began

to be more and more estranged from each other without exactly being

aware of it themselves. The image of the ugly Coppelius had, as

Nathanael was obliged to confess to himself, faded considerably in his

fancy, and it often cost him great pains to present him in vivid

colours in his literary efforts, in which he played the part of the

ghoul of Destiny. At length it entered into his head to make his dismal

presentiment that Coppelius would ruin his happiness the subject of a

poem. He made himself and Clara, united by true love, the central

figures, but represented a black hand as being from time to time thrust

into their life and plucking out a joy that had blossomed for them. At

length, as they were standing at the altar, the terrible Coppelius

appeared and touched Clara's lovely eyes, which leapt into Nathanael's

own bosom, burning and hissing like bloody sparks. Then Coppelius laid

hold upon him, and hurled him into a blazing circle of fire, which spun

round with the speed of a whirlwind, and, storming and blustering,

dashed away with him. The fearful noise it made was like a furious

hurricane lashing the foaming sea-waves until they rise up like black,

white-headed giants in the midst of the raging struggle. But through

the midst of the savage fury of the tempest he heard Clara's voice

calling, "Can you not see me, dear? Coppelius has deceived you; they

were not my eyes which burned so in your bosom; they were fiery drops

of your own heart's blood. Look at me, I have got my own eyes still."

Nathanael thought, "Yes, that is Clara, and I am hers for ever." Then

this thought laid a powerful grasp upon the fiery circle so that it

stood still, and the riotous turmoil died away rumbling down a dark

abyss. Nathanael looked into Clara's eyes; but it was death whose gaze

rested so kindly upon him.

Whilst Nathanael was writing this work he was very quiet and

sober-minded; he filed and polished every line, and as he had chosen to

submit himself to the limitations of metre, he did not rest until all

was pure and musical. When, however, he had at length finished it and

read it aloud to himself he was seized with horror and awful dread, and

he screamed, "Whose hideous voice is this?" But he soon came to see in

it again nothing beyond a very successful poem, and he confidently

believed it would enkindle Clara's cold temperament, though to what end

she should be thus aroused was not quite clear to his own mind, nor yet

what would be the real purpose served by tormenting her with these

dreadful pictures, which prophesied a terrible and ruinous end to her

affection.

Nathanael and Clara sat in his mother's little garden. Clara was bright

and cheerful, since for three entire days her lover, who had been busy

writing his poem, had not teased her with his dreams or forebodings.

Nathanael, too, spoke in a gay and vivacious way of things of merry

import, as he formerly used to do, so that Clara said, "Ah! now I have

you again. We have driven away that ugly Coppelius, you see." Then it

suddenly occurred to him that he had got the poem in his pocket which

he wished to read to her. He at once took out the manuscript and began

to read. Clara, anticipating something tedious as usual, prepared to

submit to the infliction, and calmly resumed her knitting. But as the

sombre clouds rose up darker and darker she let her knitting fall on

her lap and sat with her eyes fixed in a set stare upon Nathanael's

face. He was quite carried away by his own work, the fire of enthusiasm

coloured his cheeks a deep red, and tears started from his eyes. At

length he concluded, groaning and showing great lassitude; grasping

Clara's hand, he sighed as if he were being utterly melted in

inconsolable grief, "Oh! Clara! Clara!" She drew him softly to her

heart and said in a low but very grave and impressive tone, "Nathanael,

my darling Nathanael, throw that foolish, senseless, stupid thing into

the fire." Then Nathanael leapt indignantly to his feet, crying, as he

pushed Clara from him, "You damned lifeless automaton!" and rushed

away. Clara was cut to the heart, and wept bitterly. "Oh! he has never

loved me, for he does not understand me," she sobbed.

Lothair entered the arbour. Clara was obliged to tell him all that had

taken place. He was passionately fond of his sister; and every word of

her complaint fell like a spark upon his heart, so that the displeasure

which he had long entertained against his dreamy friend Nathanael was

kindled into furious anger. He hastened to find Nathanael, and

upbraided him in harsh words for his irrational behaviour towards his

beloved sister. The fiery Nathanael answered him in the same style. "A

fantastic, crack-brained fool," was retaliated with, "A miserable,

common, everyday sort of fellow." A meeting was the inevitable

consequence. They agreed to meet on the following morning behind the

garden-wall, and fight, according to the custom of the students of the

place, with sharp rapiers. They went about silent and gloomy; Clara

had both heard and seen the violent quarrel, and also observed the

fencing-master bring the rapiers in the dusk of the evening. She had a

presentiment of what was to happen. They both appeared at the appointed

place wrapped up in the same gloomy silence, and threw off their coats.

Their eyes flaming with the bloodthirsty light of pugnacity, they were

about to begin their contest when Clara burst through the garden door.

Sobbing, she screamed, "You savage, terrible men! Cut me down before

you attack each other; for how can I live when my lover has slain my

brother, or my brother slain my lover?" Lothair let his weapon fall and

gazed silently upon the ground, whilst Nathanael's heart was rent with

sorrow, and all the affection which he had felt for his lovely Clara in

the happiest days of her golden youth was awakened within him. His

murderous weapon, too, fell from his hand; he threw himself at Clara's

feet. "Oh! can you ever forgive me, my only, my dearly loved Clara? Can

you, my dear brother Lothair, also forgive me?" Lothair was touched by

his friend's great distress; the three young people embraced each other

amidst endless tears, and swore never again to break their bond of love

and fidelity.

Nathanael felt as if a heavy burden that had been weighing him down to

the earth was now rolled from off him, nay, as if by offering

resistance to the dark power which had possessed him, he had rescued

his own self from the ruin which had threatened him. Three happy days

he now spent amidst the loved ones, and then returned to G----, where

he had still a year to stay before settling down in his native town for

life.

Everything having reference to Coppelius had been concealed from the

mother, for they knew she could not think of him without horror, since

she as well as Nathanael believed him to be guilty of causing her

husband's death.

* * * * * * *

When Nathanael came to the house where he lived he was greatly

astonished to find it burnt down to the ground, so that nothing but the

bare outer walls were left standing amidst a heap of ruins. Although

the fire had broken out in the laboratory of the chemist who lived on

the ground-floor, and had therefore spread upwards, some of Nathanael's

bold, active friends had succeeded in time in forcing a way into his

room in the upper storey and saving his books and manuscripts and

instruments. They had carried them all uninjured into another house,

where they engaged a room for him; this he now at once took possession

of. That he lived opposite Professor Spalanzani did not strike him

particularly, nor did it occur to him as anything more singular that he

could, as he observed, by looking out of his window, see straight into

the room where Olimpia often sat alone. Her figure he could plainly

distinguish, although her features were uncertain and confused. It did

at length occur to him, however, that she remained for hours together

in the same position in which he had first discovered her through the

glass door, sitting at a little table without any occupation whatever,

and it was evident that she was constantly gazing across in his

direction. He could not but confess to himself that he had never seen a

finer figure. However, with Clara mistress of his heart, he remained

perfectly unaffected by Olimpia's stiffness and apathy; and it was only

occasionally that he sent a fugitive glance over his compendium across

to her--that was all.

He was writing to Clara; a light tap came at the door. At his summons

to "Come in," Coppola's repulsive face appeared peeping in. Nathanael

felt his heart beat with trepidation; but, recollecting what Spalanzani

had told him about his fellow-countryman Coppola, and what he had

himself so faithfully promised his beloved in respect to the Sand-man

Coppelius, he was ashamed at himself for this childish fear of

spectres. Accordingly, he controlled himself with an effort, and said,

as quietly and as calmly as he possibly could, "I don't want to buy any

weather-glasses, my good friend; you had better go elsewhere." Then

Coppola came right into the room, and said in a hoarse voice, screwing

up his wide mouth into a hideous smile, whilst his little eyes flashed

keenly from beneath his long grey eyelashes, "What! Nee weather-gless?

Nee weather-gless? 've got foine oyes as well--foine oyes!" Affrighted,

Nathanael cried, "You stupid man, how can you have eyes?--eyes--eyes?"

But Coppola, laying aside his weather-glasses, thrust his hands into

his big coat-pockets and brought out several spy-glasses and

spectacles, and put them on the table. "Theer! Theer! Spect'cles!

Spect'cles to put 'n nose! Them's my oyes--foine oyes." And he

continued to produce more and more spectacles from his pockets until

the table began to gleam and flash all over. Thousands of eyes were

looking and blinking convulsively, and staring up at Nathanael; he

could not avert his gaze from the table. Coppola went on heaping up his

spectacles, whilst wilder and ever wilder burning flashes crossed

through and through each other and darted their blood-red rays into

Nathanael's breast. Quite overcome, and frantic with terror, he

shouted, "Stop! stop! you terrible man!" and he seized Coppola by the

arm, which he had again thrust into his pocket in order to bring out

still more spectacles, although the whole table was covered all over

with them. With a harsh disagreeable laugh Coppola gently freed

himself; and with the words "So! went none! Well, here foine gless!"

he swept all his spectacles together, and put them back into his

coat-pockets, whilst from a breast-pocket he produced a great number of

larger and smaller perspectives. As soon as the spectacles were gone

Nathanael recovered his equanimity again; and, bending his thoughts

upon Clara, he clearly discerned that the gruesome incubus had

proceeded only from himself, as also that Coppola was a right honest

mechanician and optician, and far from being Coppelius's dreaded double

and ghost And then, besides, none of the glasses which Coppola now

placed on the table had anything at all singular about them, at least

nothing so weird as the spectacles; so, in order to square accounts

with himself, Nathanael now really determined to buy something of the

man. He took up a small, very beautifully cut pocket perspective, and

by way of proving it looked through the window. Never before in his

life had he had a glass in his hands that brought out things so clearly

and sharply and distinctly. Involuntarily he directed the glass upon

Spalanzani's room; Olimpia sat at the little table as usual, her arms

laid upon it and her hands folded. Now he saw for the first time the

regular and exquisite beauty of her features. The eyes, however, seemed

to him to have a singular look of fixity and lifelesness. But as he

continued to look closer and more carefully through the glass he

fancied a light like humid moonbeams came into them. It seemed as if

their power of vision was now being enkindled; their glances shone with

ever-increasing vivacity. Nathanael remained standing at the window as

if glued to the spot by a wizard's spell, his gaze rivetted

unchangeably upon the divinely beautiful Olimpia. A coughing and

shuffling of the feet awakened him out of his enchaining dream, as it

were. Coppola stood behind him, "Tre zechini" (three ducats). Nathanael

had completely forgotten the optician; he hastily paid the sum

demanded. "Ain't 't? Foine gless? foine gless?" asked Coppola in his

harsh unpleasant voice, smiling sardonically. "Yes, yes, yes," rejoined

Nathanael impatiently; "adieu, my good friend." But Coppola did not

leave the room without casting many peculiar side-glances upon

Nathanael; and the young student heard him laughing loudly on the

stairs. "Ah well!" thought he, "he's laughing at me because I've paid

him too much for this little perspective--because I've given him too

much money--that's it" As he softly murmured these words he fancied he

detected a gasping sigh as of a dying man stealing awfully through the

room; his heart stopped beating with fear. But to be sure he had heaved

a deep sigh himself; it was quite plain. "Clara is quite right," said

he to himself, "in holding me to be an incurable ghost-seer; and yet

it's very ridiculous--ay, more than ridiculous, that the stupid thought

of having paid Coppola too much for his glass should cause me this

strange anxiety; I can't see any reason for it."

Now he sat down to finish his letter to Clara; but a glance through the

window showed him Olimpia still in her former posture. Urged by an

irresistible impulse he jumped up and seized Coppola's perspective; nor

could he tear himself away from the fascinating Olimpia until his

friend and brother Siegmund called for him to go to Professor

Spalanzani's lecture. The curtains before the door of the all-important

room were closely drawn, so that he could not see Olimpia. Nor could he

even see her from his own room during the two following days,

notwithstanding that he scarcely ever left his window, and maintained a

scarce interrupted watch through Coppola's perspective upon her room.

On the third day curtains even were drawn across the window. Plunged

into the depths of despair,--goaded by longing and ardent desire, he

hurried outside the walls of the town. Olimpia's image hovered about

his path in the air and stepped forth out of the bushes, and peeped up

at him with large and lustrous eyes from the bright surface of the

brook. Clara's image was completely faded from his mind; he had no

thoughts except for Olimpia. He uttered his love-plaints aloud and in a

lachrymose tone, "Oh! my glorious, noble star of love, have you only

risen to vanish again, and leave me in the darkness and hopelessness of

night?"

Returning home, he became aware that there was a good deal of noisy

bustle going on in Spalanzani's house. All the doors stood wide open;

men were taking in all kinds of gear and furniture; the windows of the

first floor were all lifted off their hinges; busy maid-servants with

immense hair-brooms were driving backwards and forwards dusting and

sweeping, whilst within could be heard the knocking and hammering of

carpenters and upholsterers. Utterly astonished, Nathanael stood still

in the street; then Siegmund joined him, laughing, and said, "Well,

what do you say to our old Spalanzani?" Nathanael assured him that he

could not say anything, since he knew not what it all meant; to his

great astonishment, he could hear, however, that they were turning the

quiet gloomy house almost inside out with their dusting and cleaning

and making of alterations. Then he learned from Siegmund that

Spalanzani intended giving a great concert and ball on the following

day, and that half the university was invited. It was generally

reported that Spalanzani was going to let his daughter Olimpia, whom he

had so long so jealously guarded from every eye, make her first

appearance.

Nathanael received an invitation. At the appointed hour, when the

carriages were rolling up and the lights were gleaming brightly in the

decorated halls, he went across to the Professor's, his heart beating

high with expectation. The company was both numerous and brilliant.

Olimpia was richly and tastefully dressed. One could not but admire her

figure and the regular beauty of her features. The striking inward

curve of her back, as well as the wasp-like smallness of her waist,

appeared to be the result of too-tight lacing. There was something

stiff and measured in her gait and bearing that made an unfavourable

impression upon many; it was ascribed to the constraint imposed upon

her by the company. The concert began. Olimpia played on the piano with

great skill; and sang as skilfully an _aria di bravura_, in a voice

which was, if anything, almost too sharp, but clear as glass bells.

Nathanael was transported with delight; he stood in the background

farthest from her, and owing to the blinding lights could not quite

distinguish her features. So, without being observed, he took Coppola's

glass out of his pocket, and directed it upon the beautiful Olimpia.

Oh! then he perceived how her yearning eyes sought him, how every note

only reached its full purity in the loving glance which penetrated to

and inflamed his heart. Her artificial _roulades_ seemed to him to be

the exultant cry towards heaven of the soul refined by love; and when

at last, after the _cadenza_, the long trill rang shrilly and loudly

through the hall, he felt as if he were suddenly grasped by burning

arms and could no longer control himself,--he could not help shouting

aloud in his mingled pain and delight, "Olimpia!" All eyes were turned

upon him; many people laughed. The face of the cathedral organist wore

a still more gloomy look than it had done before, but all he said was,

"Very well!"

The concert came to an end, and the ball began. Oh! to dance with

her--with her--that was now the aim of all Nathanael's wishes, of all

his desires. But how should he have courage to request her, the queen

of the ball, to grant him the honour of a dance? And yet he couldn't

tell how it came about, just as the dance began, he found himself

standing close beside her, nobody having as yet asked her to be his

partner; so, with some difficulty stammering out a few words, he

grasped her hand. It was cold as ice; he shook with an awful, frosty

shiver. But, fixing his eyes upon her face, he saw that her glance was

beaming upon him with love and longing, and at the same moment he

thought that the pulse began to beat in her cold hand, and the warm

life-blood to course through her veins. And passion burned more

intensely in his own heart also; he threw his arm round her beautiful

waist and whirled her round the hall. He had always thought that he

kept good and accurate time in dancing, but from the perfectly

rhythmical evenness with which Olimpia danced, and which frequently put

him quite out, he perceived how very faulty his own time really was.

Notwithstanding, he would not dance with any other lady; and everybody

else who approached Olimpia to call upon her for a dance, he would have

liked to kill on the spot. This, however, only happened twice; to his

astonishment Olimpia remained after this without a partner, and he

failed not on each occasion to take her out again. If Nathanael had

been able to see anything else except the beautiful Olimpia, there

would inevitably have been a good deal of unpleasant quarrelling and

strife; for it was evident that Olimpia was the object of the smothered

laughter only with difficulty suppressed, which was heard in various

corners amongst the young people; and they followed her with very

curious looks, but nobody knew for what reason. Nathanael, excited by

dancing and the plentiful supply of wine he had consumed, had laid

aside the shyness which at other times characterised him. He sat beside

Olimpia, her hand in his own, and declared his love enthusiastically

and passionately in words which neither of them understood, neither he

nor Olimpia. And yet she perhaps did, for she sat with her eyes fixed

unchangeably upon his, sighing repeatedly, "Ach! Ach! Ach!" Upon this

Nathanael would answer, "Oh, you glorious heavenly lady! You ray from

the promised paradise of love! Oh! what a profound soul you have! my

whole being is mirrored in it!" and a good deal more in the same

strain. But Olimpia only continued to sigh "Ach! Ach!" again and again.

Professor Spalanzani passed by the two happy lovers once or twice, and

smiled with a look of peculiar satisfaction. All at once it seemed to

Nathanael, albeit he was far away in a different world, as if it were

growing perceptibly darker down below at Professor Spalanzani's. He

looked about him, and to his very great alarm became aware that there

were only two lights left burning in the hall, and they were on the

point of going out. The music and dancing had long ago ceased. "We must

part--part!" he cried, wildly and despairingly; he kissed Olimpia's

hand; he bent down to her mouth, but ice-cold lips met his burning

ones. As he touched her cold hand, he felt his heart thrilled with awe;

the legend of "The Dead Bride"[9] shot suddenly through his mind. But

Olimpia had drawn him closer to her, and the kiss appeared to warm her

lips into vitality. Professor Spalanzani strode slowly through the

empty apartment, his footsteps giving a hollow echo; and his figure

had, as the flickering shadows played about him, a ghostly, awful

appearance. "Do you love me? Do you love me, Olimpia? Only one little

word--Do you love me?" whispered Nathanael, but she only sighed, "Ach!

Ach!" as she rose to her feet. "Yes, you are my lovely, glorious star

of love," said Nathanael, "and will shine for ever, purifying and

ennobling my heart" "Ach! Ach!" replied Olimpia, as she moved along.

Nathanael followed her; they stood before the Professor. "You have had

an extraordinarily animated conversation with my daughter," said he,

smiling; "well, well, my dear Mr. Nathanael, if you find pleasure in

talking to the stupid girl, I am sure I shall be glad for you to come

and do so." Nathanael took his leave, his heart singing and leaping in

a perfect delirium of happiness.

During the next few days Spalanzani's ball was the general topic of

conversation. Although the Professor had done everything to make the

thing a splendid success, yet certain gay spirits related more than one

thing that had occurred which was quite irregular and out of order.

They were especially keen in pulling Olimpia to pieces for her

taciturnity and rigid stiffness; in spite of her beautiful form they

alleged that she was hopelessly stupid, and in this fact they discerned

the reason why Spalanzani had so long kept her concealed from

publicity. Nathanael heard all this with inward wrath, but nevertheless

he held his tongue; for, thought he, would it indeed be worth while to

prove to these fellows that it is their own stupidity which prevents

them from appreciating Olimpia's profound and brilliant parts? One day

Siegmund said to him, "Pray, brother, have the kindness to tell me

how you, a sensible fellow, came to lose your head over that Miss

Wax-face--that wooden doll across there?" Nathanael was about to fly

into a rage, but he recollected himself and replied, "Tell me,

Siegmund, how came it that Olimpia's divine charms could escape your

eye, so keenly alive as it always is to beauty, and your acute

perception as well? But Heaven be thanked for it, otherwise I should

have had you for a rival, and then the blood of one of us would have

had to be spilled." Siegmund, perceiving how matters stood with his

friend, skilfully interposed and said, after remarking that all

argument with one in love about the object of his affections was out of

place, "Yet it's very strange that several of us have formed pretty

much the same opinion about Olimpia. We think she is--you won't take it

ill, brother?--that she is singularly statuesque and soulless. Her

figure is regular, and so are her features, that can't be gainsaid; and

if her eyes were not so utterly devoid of life, I may say, of the power

of vision, she might pass for a beauty. She is strangely measured in

her movements, they all seem as if they were dependent upon some

wound-up clock-work. Her playing and singing has the disagreeably

perfect, but insensitive time of a singing machine, and her dancing is

the same. We felt quite afraid of this Olimpia, and did not like to

have anything to do with her; she seemed to us to be only acting _like_

a living creature, and as if there was some secret at the bottom of it

all." Nathanael did not give way to the bitter feelings which

threatened to master him at these words of Siegmund's; he fought down

and got the better of his displeasure, and merely said, very earnestly,

"You cold prosaic fellows may very well be afraid of her. It is only to

its like that the poetically organised spirit unfolds itself. Upon me

alone did her loving glances fall, and through my mind and thoughts

alone did they radiate; and only in her love can I find my own self

again. Perhaps, however, she doesn't do quite right not to jabber a lot

of nonsense and stupid talk like other shallow people. It is true, she

speaks but few words; but the few words she docs speak are genuine

hieroglyphs of the inner world of Love and of the higher cognition of

the intellectual life revealed in the intuition of the Eternal beyond

the grave. But you have no understanding for all these things, and I am

only wasting words." "God be with you, brother," said Siegmund very

gently, almost sadly, "but it seems to me that you are in a very bad

way. You may rely upon me, if all--No, I can't say any more." It all at

once dawned upon Nathanael that his cold prosaic friend Siegmund really

and sincerely wished him well, and so he warmly shook his proffered

hand.

Nathanael had completely forgotten that there was a Clara in the world,

whom he had once loved--and his mother and Lothair. They had all

vanished from his mind; he lived for Olimpia alone. He sat beside her

every day for hours together, rhapsodising about his love and sympathy

enkindled into life, and about psychic elective affinity[10]--all of

which Olimpia listened to with great reverence. He fished up from the

very bottom of his desk all the things that he had ever written--poems,

fancy sketches, visions, romances, tales, and the heap was increased

daily with all kinds of aimless sonnets, stanzas, canzonets. All these

he read to Olimpia hour after hour without growing tired; but then he

had never had such an exemplary listener. She neither embroidered, nor

knitted; she did not look out of the window, or feed a bird, or play

with a little pet dog or a favourite cat, neither did she twist a piece

of paper or anything of that kind round her finger; she did not

forcibly convert a yawn into a low affected cough--in short, she sat

hour after hour with her eyes bent unchangeably upon her lover's face,

without moving or altering her position, and her gaze grew more ardent

and more ardent still. And it was only when at last Nathanael rose

and kissed her lips or her hand that she said, "Ach! Ach!" and then

"Good-night, dear." Arrived in his own room, Nathanael would break out

with, "Oh! what a brilliant--what a profound mind! Only you--you alone

understand me." And his heart trembled with rapture when he reflected

upon the wondrous harmony which daily revealed itself between his own

and his Olimpia's character; for he fancied that she had expressed in

respect to his works and his poetic genius the identical sentiments

which he himself cherished deep down in his own heart in respect to the

same, and even as if it was his own heart's voice speaking to him. And

it must indeed have been so; for Olimpia never uttered any other words

than those already mentioned. And when Nathanael himself in his clear

and sober moments, as, for instance, directly after waking in a

morning, thought about her utter passivity and taciturnity, he only

said, "What are words--but words? The glance of her heavenly eyes says

more than any tongue of earth. And how can, anyway, a child of heaven

accustom herself to the narrow circle which the exigencies of a

wretched mundane life demand?"

Professor Spalanzani appeared to be greatly pleased at the intimacy

that had sprung up between his daughter Olimpia and Nathanael, and

showed the young man many unmistakable proofs of his good feeling

towards him; and when Nathanael ventured at length to hint very

delicately at an alliance with Olimpia, the Professor smiled all over

his face at once, and said he should allow his daughter to make a

perfectly free choice. Encouraged by these words, and with the fire of

desire burning in his heart, Nathanael resolved the very next day to

implore Olimpia to tell him frankly, in plain words, what he had long

read in her sweet loving glances,--that she would be his for ever. He

looked for the ring which his mother had given him at parting; he would

present it to Olimpia as a symbol of his devotion, and of the happy

life he was to lead with her from that time onwards. Whilst looking for

it he came across his letters from Clara and Lothair; he threw them

carelessly aside, found the ring, put it in his pocket, and ran across

to Olimpia. Whilst still on the stairs, in the entrance-passage, he

heard an extraordinary hubbub; the noise seemed to proceed from

Spalanzani's study. There was a stamping--a rattling--pushing--knocking

against the door, with curses and oaths intermingled. "Leave

hold--leave hold--you monster--you rascal--staked your life and honour

upon it?--Ha! ha! ha! ha!--That was not our wager--I, I made the

eyes--I the clock-work.--Go to the devil with your clock-work--you

damned dog of a watch-maker--be off--Satan--stop--you paltry

turner--you infernal beast!--stop--begone--let me go." The voices which

were thus making all this racket and rumpus were those of Spalanzani

and the fearsome Coppelius. Nathanael rushed in, impelled by some

nameless dread. The Professor was grasping a female figure by the

shoulders, the Italian Coppola held her by the feet; and they were

pulling and dragging each other backwards and forwards, fighting

furiously to get possession of her. Nathanael recoiled with horror on

recognising that the figure was Olimpia. Boiling with rage, he was

about to tear his beloved from the grasp of the madmen, when Coppola by

an extraordinary exertion of strength twisted the figure out of the

Professor's hands and gave him such a terrible blow with her, that he

reeled backwards and fell over the table all amongst the phials and

retorts, the bottles and glass cylinders, which covered it: all these

things were smashed into a thousand pieces. But Coppola threw the

figure across his shoulder, and, laughing shrilly and horribly, ran

hastily down the stairs, the figure's ugly feet hanging down and

banging and rattling like wood against the steps. Nathanael was

stupefied;--he had seen only too distinctly that in Olimpia's pallid

waxed face there were no eyes, merely black holes in their stead; she

was an inanimate puppet. Spalanzani was rolling on the floor; the

pieces of glass had cut his head and breast and arm; the blood was

escaping from him in streams. But he gathered his strength together by

an effort.

"After him--after him! What do you stand staring there for?

Coppelius--Coppelius--he's stolen my best automaton--at which I've

worked for twenty years--staked my life upon it--the clock-work--

speech--movement--mine--your eyes--stolen your eyes--damn him--curse

him--after him--fetch me back Olimpia--there are the eyes." And now

Nathanael saw a pair of bloody eyes lying on the floor staring at him;

Spalanzani seized them with his uninjured hand and threw them at him,

so that they hit his breast Then madness dug her burning talons into

him and swept down into his heart, rending his mind and thoughts to

shreds. "Aha! aha! aha! Fire-wheel--fire-wheel! Spin round, fire-wheel!

merrily, merrily! Aha! wooden doll! spin round, pretty wooden doll!"

and he threw himself upon the Professor, clutching him fast by the

throat. He would certainly have strangled him had not several people,

attracted by the noise, rushed in and torn away the madman; and so they

saved the Professor, whose wounds were immediately dressed. Siegmund,

with all his strength, was not able to subdue the frantic lunatic, who

continued to scream in a dreadful way, "Spin round, wooden doll!" and

to strike out right and left with his doubled fists. At length the

united strength of several succeeded in overpowering him by throwing

him on the floor and binding him. His cries passed into a brutish

bellow that was awful to hear; and thus raging with the harrowing

violence of madness, he was taken away to the madhouse.

Before continuing my narration of what happened further to the

unfortunate Nathanael, I will tell you, indulgent reader, in case you

take any interest in that skilful mechanician and fabricator of

automata, Spalanzani, that he recovered completely from his wounds. He

had, however, to leave the university, for Nathanael's fate had created

a great sensation; and the opinion was pretty generally expressed that

it was an imposture altogether unpardonable to have smuggled a wooden

puppet instead of a living person into intelligent tea-circles,--for

Olimpia had been present at several with success. Lawyers called it a

cunning piece of knavery, and all the harder to punish since it was

directed against the public; and it had been so craftily contrived that

it had escaped unobserved by all except a few preternaturally acute

students, although everybody was very wise now and remembered to have

thought of several facts which occurred to them as suspicious. But

these latter could not succeed in making out any sort of a consistent

tale. For was it, for instance, a thing likely to occur to any one as

suspicious that, according to the declaration of an elegant beau of

these tea-parties, Olimpia had, contrary to all good manners, sneezed

oftener than she had yawned? The former must have been, in the opinion

of this elegant gentleman, the winding up of the concealed clock-work;

it had always been accompanied by an observable creaking, and so on.

The Professor of Poetry and Eloquence took a pinch of snuff, and,

slapping the lid to and clearing his throat, said solemnly, "My most

honourable ladies and gentlemen, don't you see then where the rub is?

The whole thing is an allegory, a continuous metaphor. You understand

me? _Sapienti sat._" But several most honourable gentlemen did not rest

satisfied with this explanation; the history of this automaton had sunk

deeply into their souls, and an absurd mistrust of human figures began

to prevail. Several lovers, in order to be fully convinced that they

were not paying court to a wooden puppet, required that their mistress

should sing and dance a little out of time, should embroider or knit or

play with her little pug, &c., when being read to, but above all things

else that she should do something more than merely listen--that she

should frequently speak in such a way as to really show that her words

presupposed as a condition some thinking and feeling. The bonds of love

were in many cases drawn closer in consequence, and so of course became

more engaging; in other instances they gradually relaxed and fell away.

"I cannot really be made responsible for it," was the remark of more

than one young gallant. At the tea-gatherings everybody, in order to

ward off suspicion, yawned to an incredible extent and never sneezed.

Spalanzani was obliged, as has been said, to leave the place in order

to escape a criminal charge of having fraudulently imposed an automaton

upon human society. Coppola, too, had also disappeared.

When Nathanael awoke he felt as if he had been oppressed by a terrible

nightmare; he opened his eyes and experienced an indescribable

sensation of mental comfort, whilst a soft and most beautiful sensation

of warmth pervaded his body. He lay on his own bed in his own room at

home; Clara was bending over him, and at a little distance stood his

mother and Lothair. "At last, at last, O my darling Nathanael; now we

have you again; now you are cured of your grievous illness, now you are

mine again." And Clara's words came from the depths of her heart; and

she clasped him in her arms. The bright scalding tears streamed from

his eyes, he was so overcome with mingled feelings of sorrow and

delight; and he gasped forth, "My Clara, my Clara!" Siegmund, who had

staunchly stood by his friend in his hour of need, now came into the

room. Nathanael gave him his hand--"My faithful brother, you have not

deserted me." Every trace of insanity had left him, and in the tender

hands of his mother and his beloved, and his friends, he quickly

recovered his strength again. Good fortune had in the meantime visited

the house; a niggardly old uncle, from whom they had never expected to

get anything, had died, and left Nathanael's mother not only a

considerable fortune, but also a small estate, pleasantly situated not

far from the town. There they resolved to go and live, Nathanael and

his mother, and Clara, to whom he was now to be married, and Lothair.

Nathanael was become gentler and more childlike than he had ever been

before, and now began really to understand Clara's supremely pure and

noble character. None of them ever reminded him, even in the remotest

degree, of the past. But when Siegmund took leave of him, he said, "By

heaven, brother! I was in a bad way, but an angel came just at the

right moment and led me back upon the path of light. Yes, it was

Clara." Siegmund would not let him speak further, fearing lest the

painful recollections of the past might arise too vividly and too

intensely in his mind.

The time came for the four happy people to move to their little

property. At noon they were going through the streets. After making

several purchases they found that the lofty tower of the town-house was

throwing its giant shadows across the market-place. "Come," said Clara,

"let us go up to the top once more and have a look at the distant

hills." No sooner said than done. Both of them, Nathanael and Clara,

went up the tower; their mother, however, went on with the servant-girl

to her new home, and Lothair, not feeling inclined to climb up all the

many steps, waited below. There the two lovers stood arm-in-arm on the

topmost gallery of the tower, and gazed out into the sweet-scented

wooded landscape, beyond which the blue hills rose up like a giant's

city.

"Oh! do look at that strange little grey bush, it looks as if it were

actually walking towards us," said Clara. Mechanically he put his hand

into his sidepocket; he found Coppola's perspective and looked for the

bush; Clara stood in front of the glass. Then a convulsive thrill shot

through his pulse and veins; pale as a corpse, he fixed his staring

eyes upon her; but soon they began to roll, and a fiery current flashed

and sparkled in them, and he yelled fearfully, like a hunted animal.

Leaping up high in the air and laughing horribly at the same time, he

began to shout, in a piercing voice, "Spin round, wooden doll! Spin

round, wooden doll!" With the strength of a giant he laid hold upon

Clara and tried to hurl her over, but in an agony of despair she

clutched fast hold of the railing that went round the gallery. Lothair

heard the madman raging and Clara's scream of terror: a fearful

presentiment flashed across his mind. He ran up the steps; the door of

the second flight was locked. Clara's scream for help rang out more

loudly. Mad with rage and fear, he threw himself against the door,

which at length gave way. Clara's cries were growing fainter and

fainter,--"Help! save me! save me!" and her voice died away in the air.

"She is killed--murdered by that madman," shouted Lothair. The door to

the gallery was also locked. Despair gave him the strength of a giant;

he burst the door off its hinges. Good God! there was Clara in the

grasp of the madman Nathanael, hanging over the gallery in the air; she

only held to the iron bar with one hand. Quick as lightning, Lothair

seized his sister and pulled her back, at the same time dealing the

madman a blow in the face with his doubled fist, which sent him reeling

backwards, forcing him to let go his victim.

Lothair ran down with his insensible sister in his arms. She was saved.

But Nathanael ran round and round the gallery, leaping up in the air

and shouting, "Spin round, fire-wheel! Spin round, fire-wheel!" The

people heard the wild shouting, and a crowd began to gather. In the

midst of them towered the advocate Coppelius, like a giant; he had only

just arrived in the town, and had gone straight to the market-place.

Some were going up to overpower and take charge of the madman, but

Coppelius laughed and said, "Ha! ha! wait a bit; he'll come down of his

own accord;" and he stood gazing upwards along with the rest. All at

once Nathanael stopped as if spell-bound; he bent down over the

railing, and perceived Coppelius. With a piercing scream, "Ha! foine

oyes! foine oyes!" he leapt over.

When Nathanael lay on the stone pavement with a broken head, Coppelius

had disappeared in the crush and confusion.

Several years afterwards it was reported that, outside the door of a

pretty country house in a remote district, Clara had been seen sitting

hand in hand with a pleasant gentleman, whilst two bright boys were

playing at her feet. From this it may be concluded that she eventually

found that quiet domestic happiness which her cheerful, blithesome

character required, and which Nathanael, with his tempest-tossed soul,

could never have been able to give her.

* * * * * * *

FOOTNOTES TO "THE SAND-MAN":

[Footnote 1: "The Sand-man" forms the first of a series of tales

called "The Night-pieces," and was published in 1817.]

[Footnote 2: See Schiller's _Raeuber_ Act V., Scene 1. Franz Moor,

seeing that the failure of all his villainous schemes is inevitable,

and that his own ruin is close upon him, is at length overwhelmed with

the madness of despair, and unburdens the terrors of his conscience to

the old servant Daniel, bidding him laugh him to scorn.]

[Footnote 3: Lazaro Spallanzani, a celebrated anatomist and naturalist

(1729-1799), filled for several years the chair of Natural History at

Pavia, and travelled extensively for scientific purposes in Italy,

Turkey, Sicily, Switzerland, &c.]

[Footnote 4: Or Almanacs of the Muses, as they were also sometimes

called, were periodical, mostly yearly publications, containing all

kinds of literary effusions; mostly, however, lyrical. They originated

in the eighteenth century. Schiller, A. W. and F. Schlegel, Tieck, and

Chamisso, amongst others, conducted undertakings of this nature.]

[Footnote 5: Joseph Balsamo, a Sicilian by birth, calling himself Count

Cagliostro, one of the greatest impostors of modern times, lived during

the latter part of the eighteenth century. See Carlyle's "Miscellanies"

for an account of his life and character.]

[Footnote 6: Daniel Nikolas Chodowiecki, painter and engraver, of

Polish descent, was born at Dantzic in 1726. For some years he was so

popular an artist that few books were published in Prussia without

plates or vignettes by him. The catalogue of his works is said to

include 3000 items.]

[Footnote 7: Pompeo Girolamo Batoni, an Italian painter of the

eighteenth century, whose works were at one time greatly

over-estimated.]

[Footnote 8: Jakob Ruysdael (_c._ 1625-1682), a painter of Haarlem, in

Holland. His favourite subjects were remote farms, lonely stagnant

water, deep-shaded woods with marshy paths, the sea-coast--subjects of

a dark melancholy kind. His sea-pieces are greatly admired.]

[Footnote 9: Phlegon, the freedman of Hadrian, relates that a young

maiden, Philemium, the daughter of Philostratus and Charitas, became

deeply enamoured of a young man, named Machates, a guest in the house

of her father. This did not meet with the approbation of her parents,

and they turned Machates away. The young maiden took this so much to

heart that she pined away and died. Some time afterwards Machates

returned to his old lodgings, when he was visited at night by his

beloved, who came from the grave to see him again. The story may be

read in Heywood's (Thos.) "Hierarchie of Blessed Angels," Book vii., p.

479 (London, 1637). Goethe has made this story the foundation of his

beautiful poem _Die Braut von Korinth_, with which form of it Hoffmann

was most likely familiar.]

[Footnote 10: This phrase (_Die Wahlverwandschaft_ in German) has been

made celebrated as the title of one of Goethe's works.]

THE ENTAIL.

Not far from the shore of the Baltic Sea is situated the ancestral

castle of the noble family Von R----, called R--sitten. It is a wild

and desolate neighbourhood, hardly anything more than a single blade of

grass shooting up here and there from the bottomless drift-sand; and

instead of the garden that generally ornaments a baronial residence,

the bare walls are approached on the landward side by a thin forest of

firs, that with their never-changing vesture of gloom despise the

bright garniture of Spring, and where, instead of the joyous carolling

of little birds awakened anew to gladness, nothing is heard but the

ominous croak of the raven and the whirring scream of the storm-boding

sea-gull. A quarter of a mile distant Nature suddenly changes. As if by

the wave of a magician's wand you are transported into the midst of

thriving fields, fertile arable land, and meadows. You see, too, the

large and prosperous village, with the land-steward's spacious

dwelling-house; and at the angle of a pleasant thicket of alders you

may observe the foundations of a large castle, which one of the former

proprietors had intended to erect. His successors, however, living on

their property in Courland, left the building in its unfinished state;

nor would Freiherr[1] Roderick von R---- proceed with the structure

when he again took up his residence on the ancestral estate, since the

lonely old castle was more suitable to his temperament, which was

morose and averse to human society. He had its ruinous walls repaired

as well as circumstances would admit, and then shut himself up

within them along with a cross-grained house-steward and a slender

establishment of servants.

He was seldom seen in the village, but on the other hand he often

walked and rode along the sea-beach; and people claimed to have heard

him from a distance, talking to the waves and listening to the rolling

and hissing of the surf, as though he could hear the answering voice of

the spirit of the sea. Upon the topmost summit of the watch-tower he

had a sort of study fitted up and supplied with telescopes--with a

complete set of astronomical apparatus, in fact. Thence during the

daytime he frequently watched the ships sailing past on the distant

horizon like white-winged sea-gulls; and there he spent the starlight

nights engaged in astronomical, or, as some professed to know, with

astrological labours, in which the old house-steward assisted him. At

any rate the rumour was current during his own lifetime that he was

devoted to the occult sciences or the so-called Black Art, and that he

had been driven out of Courland in consequence of the failure of an

experiment by which an august princely house had been most seriously

offended. The slightest allusion to his residence in Courland filled

him with horror; but for all the troubles which had there unhinged the

tenor of his life he held his predecessors entirely to blame, in that

they had wickedly deserted the home of their ancestors. In order to

fetter, for the future, at least the head of the family to the

ancestral castle, he converted it into a property of entail. The

sovereign was the more willing to ratify this arrangement since by its

means he would secure for his country a family distinguished for all

chivalrous virtues, and which had already begun to ramify into foreign

countries.

Neither Roderick's son Hubert, nor the next Roderick, who was so called

after his grandfather, would live in their ancestral castle; both

preferred Courland. It is conceivable, too, that, being more cheerful

and fond of life than the gloomy astrologer, they were repelled by the

grim loneliness of the place. Freiherr Roderick had granted shelter and

subsistence on the property to two old maids, sisters of his father,

who were living in indigence, having been but niggardly provided for.

They, together with an aged serving-woman, occupied the small warm

rooms of one of the wings; besides them and the cook, who had a large

apartment on the ground floor adjoining the kitchen, the only other

person was a worn-out _chasseur_, who tottered about through the lofty

rooms and halls of the main building, and discharged the duties of

castellan. The rest of the servants lived in the village with the

land-steward. The only time at which the desolated and deserted castle

became the scene of life and activity was late in autumn, when the snow

first began to fall and the season for wolf-hunting and boar-hunting

arrived. Then came Freiherr Roderick with his wife, attended by

relatives and friends and a numerous retinue, from Courland. The

neighbouring nobility, and even amateur lovers of the chase who lived

in the town hard by, came down in such numbers that the main building,

together with the wings, barely sufficed to hold the crowd of guests.

Well-served fires roared in all the stoves and fireplaces, while the

spits were creaking from early dawn until late at night, and hundreds

of light-hearted people, masters and servants, were running up and down

stairs; here was heard the jingling and rattling of drinking glasses

and jovial hunting choruses, there the footsteps of those dancing to

the sound of the shrill music,--everywhere loud mirth and jollity;

so that for four or five weeks together the castle was more like a

first-rate hostelry situated on a main highroad than the abode of a

country gentleman. This time Freiherr Roderick devoted, as well as he

was able, to serious business, for, withdrawing from the revelry of his

guests, he discharged the duties attached to his position as lord of

the entail. He not only had a complete statement of the revenues laid

before him, but he listened to every proposal for improvement and to

every the least complaint of his tenants, endeavouring to establish

order in everything, and check all wrongdoing and injustice as far as

lay in his power.

In these matters of business he was honestly assisted by the old

advocate V----, who had been law agent of the R---- family and

Justitiarius[2] of their estates in P---- from father to son for many

years; accordingly, V---- was wont to set out for the estate at least a

week before the day fixed for the arrival of the Freiherr. In the year

179- the time came round again when old V---- was to start on his

journey for R--sitten. However strong and healthy the old man, now

seventy years of age, might feel, he was yet quite assured that a

helping hand would prove beneficial to him in his business. So he said

to me one day as if in jest, "Cousin!" (I was his great-nephew, but he

called me "cousin," owing to the fact that his own Christian name and

mine were both the same)--"Cousin, I was thinking it would not be amiss

if you went along with me to R--sitten and felt the sea-breezes blow

about your ears a bit. Besides giving me good help in my often

laborious work, you may for once in a while see how you like the

rollicking life of a hunter, and how, after drawing up a neatly-written

protocol one morning, you will frame the next when you come to look in

the glaring eyes of such a sturdy brute as a grim shaggy wolf or a wild

boar gnashing his teeth, and whether you know how to bring him down

with a well-aimed shot." Of course I could not have heard such strange

accounts of the merry hunting parties at R--sitten, or entertain such a

true heartfelt affection for my excellent old great-uncle as I did,

without being highly delighted that he wanted to take me with him this

time. As I was already pretty well skilled in the sort of business he

had to transact, I promised to work with unwearied industry, so as to

relieve him of all care and trouble.

Next day we sat in the carriage on our way to R--sitten, well wrapped

up in good fur coats, driving through a thick snowstorm, the first

harbinger of the coming winter. On the journey the old gentleman told

me many remarkable stories about the Freiherr Roderick, who had

established the estate-tail and appointed him (V----), in spite of his

youth, to be his Justitiarius and executor. He spoke of the harsh and

violent character of the old nobleman, which seemed to be inherited by

all the family, since even the present master of the estate, whom he

had known as a mild-tempered and almost effeminate youth, acquired more

and more as the years went by the same disposition. He therefore

recommended me strongly to behave with as much resolute self-reliance

and as little embarrassment as possible, if I desired to possess any

consideration in the Freiherr's eyes; and at length he began to

describe the apartments in the castle which he had selected to be his

own once for all, since they were warm and comfortable, and so

conveniently retired that we could withdraw from the noisy

convivialities of the hilarious company whenever we pleased. The rooms,

namely, which were on every visit reserved for him, were two small

ones, hung with warm tapestry, close beside the large hall of justice,

in the wing opposite that in which the two old maids resided.

At last, after a rapid but wearying journey, we arrived at R--sitten,

late at night. We drove through the village; it was Sunday, and from

the alehouse proceeded the sounds of music, and dancing, and

merrymaking; the steward's house was lit up from basement to garret,

and music and song were there too. All the more striking therefore was

the inhospitable desolation into which we now drove. The sea-wind

howled in sharp cutting dirges as it were about us, whilst the sombre

firs, as if they had been roused by the wind from a deep magic trance,

groaned hoarsely in a responsive chorus. The bare black walls of the

castle towered above the snow-covered ground; we drew up at the gates,

which were fast locked. But no shouting or cracking of whips, no

knocking or hammering, was of any avail; the whole castle seemed to be

dead; not a single light was visible at any of the windows. The old

gentleman shouted in his strong stentorian voice, "Francis, Francis,

where the deuce are you? In the devil's name rouse yourself; we are all

freezing here outside the gates. The snow is cutting our faces till

they bleed. Why the devil don't you stir yourself?" Then the watch-dog

began to whine, and a wandering light was visible on the ground floor.

There was a rattling of keys, and soon the ponderous wings of the gate

creaked back on their hinges. "Ha! a hearty welcome, a hearty welcome,

Herr Justitiarius. Ugh! it's rough weather!" cried old Francis, holding

the lantern above his head, so that the light fell full upon his

withered face, which was drawn up into a curious grimace, that was

meant for a friendly smile. The carriage drove into the court, and we

got out; then I obtained a full view of the old servant's extraordinary

figure, almost hidden in his wide old-fashioned chasseur livery, with

its many extraordinary lace decorations. Whilst there were only a few

grey locks on his broad white forehead, the lower part of his face wore

the ruddy hue of health; and, notwithstanding that the cramped muscles

of his face gave it something of the appearance of a whimsical mask,

yet the rather stupid good-nature which beamed from his eyes and played

about his mouth compensated for all the rest.

"Now, old Francis," began my great-uncle, knocking the snow from his

fur coat in the entrance hall, "now, old man, is everything prepared?

Have you had the hangings in my room well dusted, and the beds carried

in? and have you had a big roaring fire both yesterday and to-day?"

"No," replied Francis, quite calmly, "no, my worshipful Herr

Justitiarius, we've got none of that done." "Good Heavens!" burst out

my great-uncle, "I wrote to you in proper time; you know that I always

come at the time I fix. Here's a fine piece of stupid carelessness! I

shall have to sleep in rooms as cold as ice." "But you see, worshipful

Herr Justitiarius," continued Francis, most carefully clipping a

burning thief from the wick of the candle with the snuffers and

stamping it out with his foot, "but, you see, sir, all that would not

have been of much good, especially the fires, for the wind and the snow

have taken up their quarters too much in the rooms, driving in through

the broken windows, and then"---- "What!" cried my uncle, interrupting

him as he spread out his fur coat and placing his arms akimbo, "do you

mean to tell me the windows are broken, and you, the castellan of the

house, have done nothing to get them mended?" "But, worshipful Herr

Justitiarius," resumed the old servant calmly and composedly, "but we

can't very well get at them owing to the great masses of stones and

rubbish lying all over the room." "Damn it all, how come there to be

stones and rubbish in my room?" cried my uncle. "Your lasting health

and good luck, young gentleman!" said the old man, bowing politely to

me, as I happened to sneeze;[3] but he immediately added, "They are the

stones and plaster of the partition wall which fell in at the great

shock." "Have you had an earthquake?" blazed up my uncle, now fairly in

a rage. "No, not an earthquake, worshipful Herr Justitiarius," replied

the old man, grinning all over his face, "but three days ago the heavy

wainscot ceiling of the justice-hall fell in with a tremendous crash."

"Then may the"---- My uncle was about to rip out a terrific oath in his

violent passionate manner, but jerking up his right arm above his head

and taking off his fox-skin cap with his left, he suddenly checked

himself; and turning to me, he said with a hearty laugh, "By my troth,

cousin, we must hold our tongues; we mustn't ask any more questions, or

else we shall hear of some still worse misfortune, or have the whole

castle tumbling to pieces about our ears." "But," he continued,

wheeling round again to the old servant, "but, bless me, Francis, could

you not have had the common sense to get me another room cleaned and

warmed? Could you not have quickly fitted up a room in the main

building for the court-day?" "All that has been already done," said the

old man, pointing to the staircase with a gesture that invited us to

follow him, and at once beginning to ascend them. "Now there's a most

curious noodle for you!" exclaimed my uncle as we followed old Francis.

The way led through long lofty vaulted corridors, in the dense darkness

of which Francis's flickering light threw a strange reflection. The

pillars, capitals, and vari-coloured arches seemed as if they were

floating before us in the air; our own shadows stalked along beside us

in gigantic shape, and the grotesque paintings on the walls over which

they glided seemed all of a tremble and shake; whilst their voices, we

could imagine, were whispering in the sound of our echoing footsteps,

"Wake us not, oh! wake us not--us whimsical spirits who sleep here in

these old stones." At last, after we had traversed a long suite of cold

and gloomy apartments, Francis opened the door of a hall in which a

fire blazing brightly in the grate offered us as it were a home-like

welcome with its pleasant crackling. I felt quite comfortable the

moment I entered, but my uncle, standing still in the middle of the

hall, looked round him and said in a tone which was so very grave as to

be almost solemn, "And so this is to be the justice-hall!" Francis held

his candle above his head, so that my eye fell upon a light spot in the

wide dark wall about the size of a door; then he said in a pained and

muffled voice, "Justice has been already dealt out here." "What

possesses you, old man?" asked my uncle, quickly throwing aside his fur

coat and drawing near to the fire. "It slipped over my lips, I couldn't

help it," said Francis; then he lit the great candles and opened the

door of the adjoining room, which was very snugly fitted up for our

reception. In a short time a table was spread for us before the fire,

and the old man served us with several well-dressed dishes, which

were followed by a brimming bowl of punch, prepared in true Northern

style,--a very acceptable sight to two weary travellers like my uncle

and myself. My uncle then, tired with his journey, went to bed as soon

as he had finished supper; but my spirits were too much excited by the

novelty and strangeness of the place, as well as by the punch, for me

to think of sleep. Meanwhile, Francis cleared the table, stirred up the

fire, and bowing and scraping politely, left me to myself.

Now I sat alone in the lofty spacious _Rittersaal_ or Knight's Hall.

The snow-flakes had ceased to beat against the lattice, and the storm

had ceased to whistle; the sky was clear, and the bright full moon

shone in through the wide oriel-windows, illuminating with magical

effect all the dark corners of the curious room into which the dim

light of my candles and the fire could not penetrate. As one often

finds in old castles, the walls and ceiling of the hall were ornamented

in a peculiar antique fashion, the former with fantastic paintings and

carvings, gilded and coloured in gorgeous tints, the latter with heavy

wainscoting. Standing out conspicuously from the great pictures, which

represented for the most part wild bloody scenes in bear-hunts and

wolf-hunts, were the heads of men and animals carved in wood and joined

on to the painted bodies, so that the whole, especially in the

flickering light of the fire and the soft beams of the moon, had an

effect as if all were alive and instinct with terrible reality. Between

these pictures reliefs of knights had been inserted, of life size,

walking along in hunting costume; probably they were the ancestors of

the family who had delighted in the chase. Everything, both in the

paintings and in the carved work, bore the dingy hue of extreme old

age; so much the more conspicuous therefore was the bright bare place

on that one of the walls through which were two doors leading into

adjoining apartments. I soon concluded that there too there must have

been a door, that had been bricked up later; and hence it was that this

new part of the wall, which had neither been painted like the rest, nor

yet ornamented with carvings, formed such a striking contrast with the

others. Who does not know with what mysterious power the mind is

enthralled in the midst of unusual and singularly strange

circumstances? Even the dullest imagination is aroused when it comes

into a valley girt around by fantastic rocks, or within the gloomy

walls of a church or an abbey, and it begins to have glimpses of things

it has never yet experienced. When I add that I was twenty years of

age, and had drunk several glasses of strong punch, it will easily be

conceived that as I sat thus in the _Rittersaal_ I was in a more

exceptional frame of mind than I had ever been before. Let the reader

picture to himself the stillness of the night within, and without the

rumbling roar of the sea--the peculiar piping of the wind, which rang

upon my ears like the tones of a mighty organ played upon by spectral

hands--the passing scudding clouds which, shining bright and white,

often seemed to peep in through the rattling oriel-windows like giants

sailings past--in very truth, I felt, from the slight shudder which

shook me, that possibly a new sphere of existences might now be

revealed to me visibly and perceptibly. But this feeling was like the

shivery sensations that one has on hearing a graphically narrated ghost

story, such as we all like. At this moment it occurred to me that I

should never be in a more seasonable mood for reading the book which,

in common with every one who had the least leaning towards the

romantic, I at that time carried about in my pocket,--I mean Schiller's

"Ghost-seer." I read and read, and my imagination grew ever more and

more excited. I came to the marvellously enthralling description of the

wedding feast at Count Von V----'s.

Just as I was reading of the entrance of Jeronimo's bloody figure,[4]

the door leading from the gallery into the antechamber flew open with a

tremendous bang. I started to my feet in terror; the book fell from my

hands. In the very same moment, however, all was still again, and I

began to be ashamed of my childish fears. The door must have been burst

open by a strong gust of wind or in some other natural manner. It is

nothing; my over-strained fancy converts every ordinary occurrence into

the supernatural. Having thus calmed my fears, I picked up my book from

the ground, and again threw myself in the arm-chair; but there came a

sound of soft, slow, measured footsteps moving diagonally across the

hall, whilst there was a sighing and moaning at intervals, and in this

sighing and moaning there was expressed the deepest trouble, the most

hopeless grief, that a human being can know. "Ha! it must be some sick

animal locked up somewhere in the basement storey. Such acoustic

deceptions at night time, making distant sounds appear close at hand,

are well known to everybody. Who will suffer himself to be terrified at

such a thing as that?" Thus I calmed my fears again. But now there was

a scratching at the new portion of the wall, whilst louder and deeper

sighs were audible, as if gasped out by some one in the last throes of

mortal anguish. "Yes, yes; it is some poor animal locked up somewhere;

I will shout as loudly as I can, I will stamp violently on the floor,

then all will be still, or else the animal below will make itself heard

more distinctly, and in its natural cries," I thought. But the blood

ran cold in my veins; the cold sweat, too, stood upon my forehead, and

I remained sitting in my chair as if transfixed, quite unable to rise,

still less to cry out. At length the abominable scratching ceased, and

I again heard the footsteps. Life and motion seemed to be awakened in

me; I leapt to my feet, and went two or three steps forward. But then

there came an ice-cold draught of wind through the hall, whilst at the

same moment the moon cast her bright light upon the statue of a grave

if not almost terrible-looking man; and then, as though his warning

voice rang through the louder thunders of the waves and the shriller

piping of the wind, I heard distinctly, "No further, no further! or you

will sink beneath all the fearful horrors of the world of spectres."

Then the door was slammed too with the same violent bang as before, and

I plainly heard the footsteps in the anteroom, then going down the

stairs. The main door of the castle was opened with a creaking noise,

and afterwards closed again. Then it seemed as if a horse were brought

out of the stable, and after a while taken back again, and finally all

was still.

At that same moment my attention was attracted to my old uncle in the

adjoining room; he was groaning and moaning painfully. This brought me

fully to consciousness again; I seized the candles and hurried into the

room to him. He appeared to be struggling with an ugly, unpleasant

dream. "Wake up, wake up!" I cried loudly, taking him gently by the

hand, and letting the full glare of the light fall upon his face. He

started up with a stifled shout, and then, looking kindly at me, said,

"Ay, you have done quite right--that you have, cousin, to wake me. I

have had a very ugly dream, and it's all solely owing to this room and

that hall, for they made me think of past times and many wonderful

things that have happened here. But now let us turn to and have a

good sound sleep." Therewith the old gentleman rolled himself in the

bed-covering and appeared to fall asleep at once. But when I had

extinguished the candles and likewise crept into bed, I heard him

praying in a low tone to himself.