id
not perceive me, and I swiftly darted into the room and behind the
curtain, drawn before an open press, which stood close to the door, and
in which my father's clothes were hanging. The steps sounded nearer
and nearer--there was a strange coughing and scraping and murmuring
without. My heart trembled with anxiety and expectation. A sharp step
close--very close to the door,--a smart stroke on the latch, and the
door was open with a rattling noise. Screwing up my courage with all
my might, I cautiously peeped out. The Sandman was standing before my
father in the middle of the room, the light of the candles shone full
upon his face. The Sandman, the fearful Sandman, was the old advocate
Coppelius, who had often dined with us.

But the most hideous form could not have inspired me with deeper horror
than this very Coppelius. Imagine a large broad-shouldered man, with a
head disproportionately big, a face the colour of yellow ochre, a pair
of gray bushy eyebrows, from beneath which a pair of green cat's eyes
sparkled with the most penetrating lustre, and with a large nose curved
over his upper lip. His wry mouth was often twisted into a malicious
laugh, when a couple of dark red spots appeared upon his cheeks, and a
strange hissing sound was heard through his compressed teeth.
Coppelius always appeared in an ashen-gray coat, cut in old-fashioned
style, with waistcoat and breeches of the same colour, while his
stockings were black, and his shoes adorned with buckles set with
precious stones. The little peruke scarcely reached further than the
crown of his head, the curls stood high above his large red ears, and a
broad hair-bag projected stiffly from his neck, so that the silver
buckle which fastened his folded cravat might be plainly seen. The
whole figure was hideous and repulsive, but most disgusting to us
children were his coarse brown hairy fists; indeed, we did not like to
eat what he had touched with them. This he had remarked, and it was
his delight, under some pretext or other, to touch a piece of cake, or
some nice fruit, that our kind mother might privately have put in our
plate, in order that we, with tears in our eyes, might, from disgust
and abhorrence, no longer be able to enjoy the treat intended for us.
He acted in the same manner on holidays, when my father gave us a
little glass of sweet wine. Then would he swiftly draw his fist over
it, or perhaps he would even raise the glass to his blue lip