Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992)

by David G. Hartwell (Ed. )

  “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