Clara’s image stands so plainly before me, that I cannot look another
way, as indeed was always the case when she gazed at me, with one of
her lively smiles. Clara could not by any means be reckoned beautiful;
that was the opinion of all who are competent judges of beauty, by
their calling. Nevertheless, the architects praised the exact symmetry
of her frame, and the painters considered her neck, shoulders, and
bosom almost too chastely formed, but then they all fell in love with
her wondrous Magdalen-hair, and above every thing prated about
_battonisch_ colouring. One of them, a most fantastical fellow,
singularly compared Clara’s eyes to a lake by Ruysdael, in which the
pure azure of a cloudless sky, the wood and flowery field, the whole
cheerful life of the rich landscape are reflected. Poets and composers
went still further. “What is a lake--what is a mirror!” said they,
“can we look upon the girl without wondrous, heavenly songs and tunes
flashing towards us from her glances, and penetrating our inmost soul,
so that all there is awakened and stirred. If even then we sing
nothing that is really sensible, there is not much in us, and that we
can feelingly read in the delicate smile which plays on Clara’s lips,
when we presume to tinkle something before her, which is to pass for a
song, although it is only a confused jumble of tones.” So it was.
Clara had the vivid fancy of a cheerful, unembarrassed child, a deep,
tender, feminine disposition, an acute, clever understanding. The
misty dreams had but a bad chance with her, since, though she did not
talk,--as indeed talking would have been altogether repugnant to her
tacit nature, her bright glance and her firm ironical smile would say
to them: “Good friends, how can you imagine that I shall take your
fleeting shadowy images for real forms with life and motion?” On this
account Clara was censured by many as cold, unfeeling and prosaic;
while others, who conceived life in its clear depth, greatly loved the
feeling, acute, childlike girl, but none so much as Nathaniel, whose
perception in art and science was clear and strong. Clara was attached
to her lover with all her soul, and when he parted from her, the first
cloud passed over her life. With what transport did she rush into his
arms when, as he had promised in his last letter to Lothaire, he had
actually returned to his native town and entered his mother’s room.
Nathaniel’s expectations were completely fulfilled; for directly he saw
Clara he thought neither of the Advocate Coppelius, nor of her
“sensible” letter. All gloomy forebodings had gone.
However, Nathaniel was quite right, when he wrote to his friend
Lothaire that the form of the repulsive barometer-seller, Coppola, had
had a most hostile effect on his life. All felt, even in the first
days, that Nathaniel had undergone a thorough change in his whole
temperament. He sank into a gloomy reverie, and conducted himself in a
strange manner, that had never been known in him before. Every thing,
his whole life, had become to him a dream and a foreboding, and he was
always saying that every man, although he might think himself free,
only served for the cruel sport of dark powers. These he said it was
vain to resist, and man must patiently resign himself to his fate. He
went even so far as to say, that it is foolish to think that we do any
thing in art and science according to our own self-acting will, for the
inspiration which alone enables us to produce any thing, does not
proceed from within ourselves, but is the effect of a higher principle
without.
To the clear-headed Clara this mysticism was in the highest degree
repugnant, but contradiction appeared to be useless. Only when
Nathaniel proved that Coppelius was the evil principle, which had
seized him at the moment when he was listening behind the curtain, and
that this repugnant principle would in some horrible manner disturb the
happiness of their life, Clara grew very serious, and said: “Yes,
Nathaniel, you are right. Coppelius is an evil, hostile principle; he
can produce terrible effects, like a diabolical power that has come
invisibly into life; but only then, when you will not banish him from
your mind and thoughts. So long as you believe in him he really
exists, and exerts his influence; only your belief is his power.”
Nathaniel, quite indignant that Clara established the demon’s existence
only in his own mind, would then come out with all the mystical
doctrine of devils and fearful powers. But Clara would break off
peevishly, by introducing some indifferent matter, to the no small
annoyance of Nathaniel. He thought that such deep secrets were closed
to cold, unsusceptible minds, without being clearly aware that he
reckoned Clara among these subordinate natures, and therefore he
constantly endeavoured to initiate her into the mysteries. In the
morning, when Clara was getting breakfast ready, he stood by her, and
read out of all sorts of mystical books, till she cried: “But, dear
Nathaniel, suppose I blame you as the evil principle, that has a
hostile effect upon my coffee? For if to please you, I leave every
thing standing still, and look in your eyes, while you read, my coffee
will run into the fire, and none of you will get any breakfast.”
Nathaniel closed the book at once, and hurried indignantly to his
chamber. Once he had a remarkable _forte_ for graceful, lively tales,
which he wrote down, and to which Clara listened with the greatest
delight; now, his creations were gloomy, incomprehensible, formless, so
that although Clara, out of compassion, did not say so, he plainly felt
how little she was interested. Nothing was more insupportable to Clara
than tediousness; in her looks and in her words a mental drowsiness,
not to be conquered, was expressed. Nathaniel’s productions were,
indeed, very tedious. His indignation at Clara’s cold, prosaic
disposition, constantly increased, and Clara could not overcome her
dislike of Nathaniel’s dark, gloomy, tedious mysticism, so that they
became more and more estranged from each other in mind, without
perceiving it. The form of the ugly Coppelius, as Nathaniel himself
was forced to confess, grew more dim in his fancy, and it often cost
him trouble to colour with sufficient liveliness in his pictures, when
he appeared as a ghastly bugbear of fate. At last it struck him that
he would make the gloomy foreboding, that Coppelius would destroy his
happiness in love, the subject of a poem. He represented himself and
Clara as united by true love; but occasionally it seemed as though a
black hand darted into their life, and tore away some newly-springing
joy. At last, while they were standing at the altar, the hideous
Coppelius appeared, and touched Clara’s lively eyes. They flashed into
Nathaniel’s heart, like bleeding sparks, scorching and burning, when
Coppelius caught him, and flung him into a flaming, fiery circle, which
flew round with the swiftness of the stream, and carried him along with
it, amid its roaring. The roar is like that of the hurricane, when it
fiercely lashes the foaming waves, which, like black giants with white
heads, rise up for the furious combat. But through the wild tumult he
hears Clara’s voice: “Can you not, then, see me? Coppelius has
deceived you. Those, indeed, were not my eyes, which so burned in your
breast--they were glowing drops of your own heart’s blood. I have my
eyes still--only look at them!” Nathaniel reflects: “That is Clara,
and I am hers for ever!” Then it seems to him as though thought
forcibly entered the fiery circle, which stands still, while the noise
dully ceases in the dark abyss. Nathaniel looks into Clara’s eyes, but
it is only death that, with Clara’s eyes, kindly looks on him.
While Nathaniel composed this poem he was very calm and collected; he
polished and improved every line, and having subjected himself to the
fetters of metre, he did not rest till all was correct and melodious.
When at last he had finished and read the poem aloud to himself, a wild
horror seized him, and he cried out: “Whose horrible voice is that?”
Soon, however, the whole appeared to him a very successful work, and he
felt that it must inflame Clara’s cold temperament, although he did not
clearly consider for what Clara was to be excited, nor what purpose it
would answer to torment her with the frightful images which threatened
a horrible destiny, destructive to their love. Both of them--that is
to say Nathaniel and Clara--were sitting in their mother’s little
garden, Clara very cheerful, because Nathaniel, during the three days
in which he had been writing his poem, had not teased her with his
dreams and his forebodings. Even Nathaniel spoke livelily and joyfully
about pleasant matters, as he used to do formerly, so that Clara said:
“Now for the first time I have you again! Do you not see that we have
driven away the ugly Coppelius?” Then it first struck Nathaniel that
he had in his pocket the poem, which he had intended to read. He at
once drew the sheets out and began, while Clara, expecting something
tedious as usual, resigned herself and began quietly to knit. But as
the dark cloud rose ever blacker and blacker, she let the stocking fall
and looked full into his face. He was carried along unceasingly by his
poem, an internal fire deeply reddened his cheeks, tears flowed from
his eyes. At last when he had concluded, he groaned in a state of
utter exhaustion, and catching Clara’s hand, sighed forth, as if melted
into the most inconsolable grief: “Oh Clara!--Clara!” Clara pressed
him gently to her bosom, and said softly, but very solemnly and
sincerely: “Nathaniel, dearest Nathaniel, do throw that mad, senseless,
insane stuff into the fire!” Upon this Nathaniel sprang up enraged,
and thrusting Clara from him, cried: “Thou inanimate, accursed
automaton!” He ran off; Clara, deeply offended, shed bitter tears, and
sobbed aloud: “Ah, he has never loved me, for he does not understand
me.” Lothaire entered the arbour; Clara was obliged to tell him all
that had occurred. He loved his sister with all his soul, and every
word of her complaint fell like a spark of fire into his heart, so that
the indignation which he had long harboured against the visionary
Nathaniel, now broke out into the wildest rage. He ran to Nathaniel
and reproached him for his senseless conduct towards his beloved sister
in hard words, which the infuriated Nathaniel retorted in the same
style. The appellation of “fantastical, mad fool,” was answered by
that of “miserable common-place fellow.” A duel was inevitable. They
agreed on the following morning, according to the academical custom of
the place, to fight with sharp rapiers behind the garden. Silently and
gloomily they slunk about. Clara had overheard the violent dispute,
and seeing the fencing-master bring the rapiers at dawn, guessed what
was to occur. Having reached the place of combat, Lothaire and
Nathaniel had in gloomy silence flung off their coats, and with the
fierce desire of fighting in their flaming eyes, were about to fall
upon one another, when Clara rushed through the garden door. Sobbing,
she cried aloud, “Ye wild cruel men! Strike me down before you attack
each other, for how shall I live longer in the world if my lover
murders my brother, or my brother murders my lover.” Lothaire lowered
his weapon, and looked in silence on the ground; but in Nathaniel’s
heart, amid the most poignant sorrow, revived all the love for the
beautiful Clara, which he had felt in the best days of his happy youth.
The weapon fell from his hand, he threw himself at Clara’s feet. “Can
you ever forgive me, my only--my beloved Clara? Can you forgive me, my
dear brother, Lothaire?”
Lothaire was touched by the deep contrition of his friend; all three
embraced in reconciliation amid a thousand tears, and vowed eternal
love and fidelity.
Nathaniel felt as though a heavy burden, which pressed him to the
ground, had been rolled away, as though by resisting the dark power,
which held him fast, he had saved his whole being, which had been
threatened with annihilation. Three happy days he passed with his dear
friends, and then went to G----, where he intended to stay a year, and
then to return to his native town for ever.
All that referred to Coppelius was kept a secret from the mother, for
it was well known that she could not think of him without terror, as
she, as well as Nathaniel, accused him of causing her husband’s death.
* * * * *
How surprised was Nathaniel, when proceeding to his lodging, he saw
that the whole house was burned down, and that only the bare walls
stood up amid the ashes. However, notwithstanding the fire had broken
out in the laboratory of the apothecary who lived on the ground-floor,
and had therefore consumed the house from bottom to top, some bold
active friends had succeeded in entering Nathaniel’s room in the upper
story, in time to save the books, manuscripts, and instruments. They
carried all safe and sound into another house, where they took a room,
which Nathaniel entered at once. He did not think it at all remarkable
that he lodged opposite to Professor Spalanzani; neither did it appear
singular when he perceived that his window looked straight into the
room where Olympia often sat alone, so that he could plainly recognise
her figure, although the features of her face were indistinct and
confused. At last it struck him, that Olympia often remained for hours
in this attitude, in which he had once seen her through the glass-door,
sitting at a little table without any occupation, and that she plainly
enough looked over at him with an unvarying glance. He was forced to
confess that he had never seen a more lovely form, but with Clara in
his heart, the stiff Olympia was perfectly indifferent to him.
Occasionally, to be sure, he gave a transient look over his compendium,
at the beautiful statue, but that was all. He was just writing to
Clara, when he heard a light tap at the door; it paused at his words,
and the repulsive face of Coppola peeped in. Nathaniel’s heart
trembled within him, but remembering what Spalanzani had told him about
the countryman, Coppola, and also the sacred promises he had made to
Clara with respect to the Sandman Coppelius, he felt ashamed of his
childish fear, and collecting himself with all his might, said as
softly and civily as possible: “I do not want a barometer, my good
friend; pray, go.” Upon this, Coppola advanced a good way into the
room, and said in a hoarse voice, while his wide mouth distorted itself
into a hideous laugh, and his little eyes under their long gray lashes
sparkled forth piercingly: “Eh, eh--no barometer--no barometer? I have
besides pretty eyes--pretty eyes!”--“Madman!” cried Nathaniel with
horror, “how can you have eyes?--Eyes?” But Coppola had already put
his barometer aside, and plunged his hand into his wide coat-pocket,
whence he drew lunettes and spectacles, which he placed upon the table
“There--there--spectacles on the nose, those are my eyes--pretty eyes!”
And so saying he drew out more and more spectacles so, that the whole
table began to glisten and sparkle in the most extraordinary manner. A
thousand eyes glanced, and quivered convulsively, and stared at
Nathaniel; yet he could not look away from the table, and Coppola kept
still laying down more and more spectacles, while flaming glances were
intermingled more and more wildly, and shot their blood-red rays into
Nathaniel’s breast. Overcome with horror, he shrieked out: “Hold,
hold, frightful man!” He seized fast by the arm Coppola, who was
searching his pockets to bring out still more spectacles, although the
whole table was already covered. Coppola had greatly extricated
himself with a hoarse repulsive laugh, and with the words: “Ah, nothing
for you--but here are pretty glasses;” he had collected all the
spectacles, put them up, and from the breast-pocket of his coat had
drawn forth a number of telescopes large and small. As soon as the
spectacles were removed Nathaniel felt quite easy, and thinking of
Clara, perceived that the hideous phantom was but the creature of his
own mind, and that Coppola was an honest optician, and could by no
means be the accursed double of Coppelius. Moreover, in all the
glasses which Coppola now placed on the table, there was nothing
remarkable, or at least nothing so ghost-like as the spectacles, and to
make matters right Nathaniel resolved to buy something of Coppola. He
took up a little and very neatly worked pocket-telescope, and looked
through the window to try it. Never in his life had he met a glass
which brought the objects so sharply, plainly, and clearly before his
eyes. Involuntarily he looked into Spalanzani’s room; Olympia was
sitting as usual before the little table, with her arms laid upon it,
and her hands folded. For the first time could he see the wondrous
beauty in the form of her face;--only the eyes seemed to him singularly
stiff and dead. Nevertheless, as he looked more sharply through the
glass, it seemed to him as if moist morn-beams were rising in the eyes
of Olympia. It was as if the power of seeing was kindled for the first
time; the glances flashed with constantly increasing liveliness. As if
spell-bound, Nathaniel reclined against the window, meditating on the
charming Olympia. A hemming and scraping aroused him as if from a
dream. Coppola was standing behind him: “_Tre zecchini_--three
ducats!” Nathaniel, who had quite forgotten the optician, quickly paid
him what he asked. “Is it not so? A pretty glass--a pretty glass?”
asked Coppola, in his hoarse, repulsive voice, and with his malicious
smile. “Yes--yes,” replied Nathaniel, peevishly; “good bye, friend.”
Coppola left the room, not without casting many strange glances at
Nathaniel. He heard him laugh loudly on the stairs. “Ah,” thought
Nathaniel, “he is laughing at me because no doubt, I have paid him too
much for this little glass.” While he softly uttered these words, it
seemed as if a deep deadly sigh was sounding fearfully through the
room, and his breath was stopped by inward anguish. He perceived,
however, that it was himself that had sighed. “Clara,” he said to
himself, “is right in taking me for a senseless dreamer, but it is pure
madness--nay, more than madness, that the stupid thought, that I have
paid Coppola too much for the glass, pains me even so strangely. I
cannot see the cause.” He now sat down to finish his letter to Clara;
but a glance through the window convinced him that Olympia was still
sitting there, and he instantly sprang out, as if impelled by an
irresistible power, seized Coppola’s glass, and could not tear himself
from the seductive view of Olympia, till his friend and brother
Sigismund, called him to go to Professor Spalanzani’s lecture. The
curtain was drawn close before the fatal room, and he could neither
perceive Olympia now nor during the two following days, although he
scarcely ever left the window, and constantly looked through Coppola’s
glass. On the third day the windows were completely covered. Quite in
despair, and impelled by a burning wish, he ran out of the town-gate.
Olympia’s form floated before him in the air, stepped forth from the
bushes, and peeped at him with large beaming eyes from the clear brook.
Clara’s image had completely vanished from his mind; he thought of
nothing but Olympia, and complained aloud and in a murmuring tone: “Ah,
thou noble, sublime star of my love, hast thou only risen upon me, to
vanish immediately, and leave me in dark hopeless night?”
When he was retiring to his lodging, he perceived that there was a
great bustle in Spalanzani’s house. The doors were wide open, all
sorts of utensils were being carried in, the windows of the first floor
were being taken out, maid servants were going about sweeping and
dusting with great hair-brooms, and carpenters and upholsterers were
knocking and hammering within. Nathaniel remained standing in the
street in a state of perfect wonder, when Sigismund came up to him,
laughing, and said: “Now, what do you say to our old Spalanzani?”
Nathaniel assured him that he could say nothing because he knew nothing
about the professor, but on the contrary perceived with astonishment
the mad proceedings in a house otherwise so quiet and gloomy. He then
learnt from Sigismund that Spalanzani intended to give a grand festival
on the following day,--a concert and ball--and that half the university
was invited. It was generally reported that Spalanzani, who had so
long kept his daughter most painfully from every human eye, would now
let her appear for the first time.