istle,
in which she proves, at great length, that Coppelius and Coppola only
exist in my own mind, and are phantoms of myself, which will be
dissipated directly I recognise them as such. Indeed, one could not
believe that the mind which often peers out of those bright, smiling,
childish eyes, like a sweet charming dream, could define with such
intelligence, in such a professor-like manner. She appeals to
you--you, it seems have been talking about me. I suppose you read her
logical lectures, that she may learn to divide and sift every thing
acutely. Pray leave it off. Besides it is quite certain that the
barometer-dealer, Guiseppe Coppola, is not the advocate Coppelius. I
attend the lectures of the professor of physics, who has lately
arrived. His name is the same as that of the famous natural
philosopher, Spalanzani, and he is of Italian origin. He has known
Coppola for years, and moreover it is clear from his accent that he is
really a Piedmontese. Coppelius was a German, but I think no honest
one. Calmed I am not, and though you and Clara may consider me a
gloomy visionary, I cannot get rid of the impression, which the
accursed face of Coppelius makes upon me. I am glad that Coppola has
left the town, as Spalanzani says. This professor is a strange
fellow--a little round man, with high cheek bones, sharp nose, pouting
lips, and little piercing eyes. Yet you will get a better notion of
him than by this description, if you look at the portrait of
Cagliostro, designed by Chodowiecki, in one of the Berlin annuals,
Spalanzani looks like that exactly. I lately went up stairs, and
perceived that the curtain, which was generally drawn completely over a
glass door, left a little opening on one side. I know not what
curiosity impelled me to look through, a tall and very slender lady
most symmetrically formed, and most splendidly attired, sat in the room
by a little table on which she had laid her arms, her hands being
folded together. She sat opposite to the door, so that I could
completely see her angelic countenance. She did not appear to see me,
and indeed there was something fixed about her eyes as if, I might
almost say, she had no power of sight. It seemed to me that she was
sleeping with her eyes open. I felt very uncomfortable, and therefore
I slunk away into the auditorium, which was close at hand. Afterwards
I learned that the form I had seen was that of Spalanzani's daughter
Olympia, whom he kept