e the little table, with her arms laid upon it,
and her hands folded. For the first time could he see the wondrous
beauty in the form of her face;--only the eyes seemed to him singularly
stiff and dead. Nevertheless, as he looked more sharply through the
glass, it seemed to him as if moist morn-beams were rising in the eyes
of Olympia. It was as if the power of seeing was kindled for the first
time; the glances flashed with constantly increasing liveliness. As if
spell-bound, Nathaniel reclined against the window, meditating on the
charming Olympia. A hemming and scraping aroused him as if from a
dream. Coppola was standing behind him: "_Tre zecchini_--three
ducats!" Nathaniel, who had quite forgotten the optician, quickly paid
him what he asked. "Is it not so? A pretty glass--a pretty glass?"
asked Coppola, in his hoarse, repulsive voice, and with his malicious
smile. "Yes--yes," replied Nathaniel, peevishly; "good bye, friend."
Coppola left the room, not without casting many strange glances at
Nathaniel. He heard him laugh loudly on the stairs. "Ah," thought
Nathaniel, "he is laughing at me because no doubt, I have paid him too
much for this little glass." While he softly uttered these words, it
seemed as if a deep deadly sigh was sounding fearfully through the
room, and his breath was stopped by inward anguish. He perceived,
however, that it was himself that had sighed. "Clara," he said to
himself, "is right in taking me for a senseless dreamer, but it is pure
madness--nay, more than madness, that the stupid thought, that I have
paid Coppola too much for the glass, pains me even so strangely. I
cannot see the cause." He now sat down to finish his letter to Clara;
but a glance through the window convinced him that Olympia was still
sitting there, and he instantly sprang out, as if impelled by an
irresistible power, seized Coppola's glass, and could not tear himself
from the seductive view of Olympia, till his friend and brother
Sigismund, called him to go to Professor Spalanzani's lecture. The
curtain was drawn close before the fatal room, and he could neither
perceive Olympia now nor during the two following days, although he
scarcely ever left the window, and constantly looked through Coppola's
glass. On the third day the windows were completely covered. Quite in
despair, and impelled by a burning wish, he ran out of the town-gate.
Olympia's form floated before him in the air, stepped forth from th