le. 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 Clara, and I am hers for ever." 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 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 bein