The Sand-Man | Page 3

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 I 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