The Sand-Man | Page 7

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