ced on the table had anything at all singular about them, at least
nothing so weird as the spectacles; so, in order to square accounts
with himself, Nathanael now really determined to buy something of the
man. He took up a small, very beautifully cut pocket perspective, and
by way of proving it looked through the window. Never before in his
life had he had a glass in his hands that brought out things so clearly
and sharply and distinctly. Involuntarily he directed the glass upon
Spalanzani's room; Olimpia sat at the little table as usual, her arms
laid upon it and her hands folded. Now he saw for the first time the
regular and exquisite beauty of her features. The eyes, however, seemed
to him to have a singular look of fixity and lifelesness. But as he
continued to look closer and more carefully through the glass he
fancied a light like humid moonbeams came into them. It seemed as if
their power of vision was now being enkindled; their glances shone with
ever-increasing vivacity. Nathanael remained standing at the window as
if glued to the spot by a wizard's spell, his gaze rivetted
unchangeably upon the divinely beautiful Olimpia. A coughing and
shuffling of the feet awakened him out of his enchaining dream, as it
were. Coppola stood behind him, "Tre zechini" (three ducats). Nathanael
had completely forgotten the optician; he hastily paid the sum
demanded. "Ain't 't? Foine gless? foine gless?" asked Coppola in his
harsh unpleasant voice, smiling sardonically. "Yes, yes, yes," rejoined
Nathanael impatiently; "adieu, my good friend." But Coppola did not
leave the room without casting many peculiar side-glances upon
Nathanael; and the young student heard him laughing loudly on the
stairs. "Ah well!" thought he, "he's laughing at me because I've paid
him too much for this little perspective--because I've given him too
much money--that's it" As he softly murmured these words he fancied he
detected a gasping sigh as of a dying man stealing awfully through the
room; his heart stopped beating with fear. But to be sure he had heaved
a deep sigh himself; it was quite plain. "Clara is quite right," said
he to himself, "in holding me to be an incurable ghost-seer; and yet
it's very ridiculous--ay, more than ridiculous, that the stupid thought
of having paid Coppola too much for his glass should cause me this
strange anxiety; I can't see any reason for it."

Now he sat down to finish his letter to Clara; but a glance through the
wi