“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
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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 weatherglasses, 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
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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
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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
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Clara, and I am hers forever.” 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
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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
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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,
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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 summon
s 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
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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
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