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CARMILLA 1872 EXCEPT NOTHING. THIS IS THE ENTIRE FUCKING BOOK. ON TUMBLR. FOR FREE. Part one

Prologue Upon a paper attached to the Narrative which follows, Doctor Hesselius has written a rather

elaborate note, which he accompanies with a reference to his Essay on the strange subject which

the MS. illuminates.

This mysterious subject, he treats, in that Essay, with his usual learning and acumen, and with

remarkable directness and condensation. It will form but one volume of the series of that

extraordinary man's collected papers.

As I publish the case, in these volumes, simply to interest the "laity," I shall forestal the intelligent

lady, who relates it, in nothing; and, after due consideration, I have determined, therefore, to

abstain from presenting any précis of the learned Doctor's reasoning, or extract from his statement

on a subject which he describes as "involving, not improbably, some of the profoundest arcana of

our dual existence, and its intermediates."

I was anxious, on discovering this paper, to re-open the correspondence commenced by Doctor

Hesselius, so many years before, with a person so clever and careful as his informant seems to have

been. Much to my regret, however, I found that she had died in the interval.

She, probably, could have added little to the Narrative which she communicates in the following

pages, with, so far as I can pronounce, such a conscientious particularity

AN EARLY FRIGHT

In Styria, we, though by no means magnificent people, inhabit a castle, or schloss. A small income,

in that part of the world, goes a great way. Eight or nine hundred a year does wonders. Scantily

enough ours would have answered among wealthy people at home. My father is English, and I

bear an English name, although I never saw England. But here, in this lonely and primitive place,

where everything is so cheap, I really don't see how ever so much more money would at all

materially add to our comforts, or even luxuries.

My father was in the Austrian service, and retired upon a pension and his patrimony, and

purchased this feudal residence, and the small estate on which it stands, a bargain.

Nothing can be more picturesque or solitary. It stands on a slight eminence in a forest. The road,

very old and narrow, passes in front of its drawbridge, never raised in my time, and its moat,

stocked with perch, and sailed over by many swans, and floating on its surface white fleets of

water-lilies.

Over all this the schloss shows its many-windowed front; its towers, and its Gothic chapel.

The forest opens in an irregular and very picturesque glade before its gate, and at the right a steep

Gothic bridge carries the road over a stream that winds in deep shadow through the wood.

I have said that this is a very lonely place. Judge whether I say truth. Looking from the hall door

towards the road, the forest in which our castle stands extends fifteen miles to the right, and twelve

to the left. The nearest inhabited village is about seven of your English miles to the left. The

nearest inhabited schloss of any historic associations, is that of old General Spielsdorf, nearly

twenty miles away to the right.

I have said "the nearest inhabited village," because there is, only three miles westward, that is to

say in the direction of General Spielsdorf's schloss, a ruined village, with its quaint little church,

now roofless, in the aisle of which are the mouldering tombs of the proud family of Karnstein, now

extinct, who once owned the equally desolate château which, in the thick of the forest, overlooks

the silent ruins of the town.

Respecting the cause of the desertion of this striking and melancholy spot, there is a legend which

I shall relate to you another time.

I must tell you now, how very small is the party who constitute the inhabitants of our castle. I don't

include servants, or those dependents who occupy rooms in the buildings attached to the schloss.

Listen, and wonder! My father, who is the kindest man on earth, but growing old; and I, at the date

of my story, only nineteen. Eight years have passed since then. I and my father constituted the

family at the schloss. My mother, a Styrian lady, died in my infancy, but I had a good-natured

governess, who Had been with me from, I might almost say, my infancy. I could not remember the

time when her fat, benignant face was not a familiar picture in my memory. This was Madame

Perrodon, a native of Berne, whose care and good nature in part supplied to me the loss of my

mother, whom I do not even remember, so early I lost her. She made a third at our little dinner

party. There was a fourth, Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, a lady such as you term, I believe, a

"finishing governess." She spoke French and German, Madame Perrodon French and broken

English, to which my father and I added English, which, partly to prevent its becoming a lost

language among us, and partly from patriotic motives, we spoke every day. The consequence was a

Babel, at which strangers used to laugh, and which I shall make no attempt to reproduce in this

narrative. And there were two or three young lady friends besides, pretty nearly of my own age, who were occasional visitors, for longer or shorter terms; and these visits I sometimes returned.

These were our regular social resources; but of course there were chance visits from "neighbours"

of only five or six leagues distance. My life was, notwithstanding, rather a solitary one, I can assure

you.

My gouvernantes had just so much control over me as you might conjecture such sage persons

would have in the case of a rather spoiled girl, whose only parent allowed her pretty nearly her own

way in everything.

The first occurrence in my existence, which produced a terrible impression upon my mind, which,

in fact, never has been effaced, was one of the very earliest incidents of my life which I can

recollect. Some people will think it so trifling that it should not be recorded here. You will see,

however, by-and-bye, why I mention it. The nursery, as it was called, though I had it all to myself,

was a large room in the upper story of the castle, with a steep oak roof. I can't have been more than

six years old, when one night I awoke, and looking round the room from my bed, failed to see the

nursery-maid. Neither was my nurse there; and I thought myself alone. I was not frightened, for I

was one of those happy children who are studiously kept in ignorance of ghost stories, of fairy

tales, and of all such lore as makes us cover up our heads when the door creeks suddenly, or the

flicker of an expiring candle makes the shadow of a bed-post dance upon the wall, nearer to our

faces. I was vexed and insulted at finding myself, as I conceived, neglected, and I began to

whimper, preparatory to a hearty bout of roaring; when to my surprise, I saw a solemn, but very

pretty face looking at me from the side of the bed. It was that of a young lady who was kneeling,

with her hands under the coverlet. I looked at her with a kind of pleased wonder, and ceased

whimpering. She caressed me with her hands, and lay down beside me on the bed, and drew me

towards her, smiling; I felt immediately delightfully soothed, and fell asleep again. I was wakened

by a sensation as if two needles ran into my breast very deep at the same moment, and I cried

loudly. The lady started back, with her eyes fixed on me, and then slipped down upon the floor,

and, as I thought, hid herself under the bed.

I was now for the first time frightened, and I yelled with all my might and main. Nurse, nurserymaid,

housekeeper, all came running in, and hearing my story, they made light of it, soothing me

all they could meanwhile. But, child as I was, I could perceive that their faces were pale with an

unwonted look of anxiety, and I saw them look under the bed, and about the room, and peep under

tables and pluck open cupboards; and the housekeeper whispered to the nurse: "Lay your hand

along that hollow in the bed; some one did lie there, so sure as you did not; the place is still warm."

I remember the nursery-maid petting me, and all three examining my chest, where I told them I felt

the puncture, and pronouncing that there was no sign visible that any such thing had happened to

me.

The housekeeper and the two other servants who were in charge of the nursery, remained sitting up

all night; and from that time a servant always sat up in the nursery until I was about fourteen.

I was very nervous for a long time after this. A doctor was called in, he was pallid and elderly. How

well I remember his long saturnine face, slightly pitted with small-pox, and his chesnut wig. For a

good while, every second day, he came and gave me medicine, which of course I hated. The

morning after I saw this apparition I was in a state of terror, and could not bear to be left alone,

daylight though it was, for a moment.

I remember my father coming up and standing at the bedside, and talking cheerfully, and asking

the nurse a number of questions, and laughing very heartily at one of the answers; and patting me

on the shoulder, and kissing me, and telling me not to be frightened, that it was nothing but a dream and could not hurt me. But I was not comforted, for I knew the visit of the strange woman

was not a dream; and I was awfully frightened.

I was a little consoled by the nursery-maid's assuring me that it was she who had come and looked

at me, and lain down beside me in the bed, and that I must have been half-dreaming not to have

known her face. But this, though supported by the nurse, did not quite satisfy me.

I remember, in the course of that day, a venerable old man, in a black cassock, coming into the

room with the nurse and housekeeper, and talking a little to them, and very kindly to me; his face

was very sweet and gentle, and he told me they were going to pray, and joined my hands together,

and desired me to say, softly, while they were praying, "Lord hear all good prayers for us, for

Jesus' sake." I think these were the very words, for I often repeated them to myself, and my nurse

used for years to make me say them in my prayers.

I remember so well the thoughtful sweet face of that white-haired old man, in his black cossack, as

he stood in that rude, lofty, brown room, with the clumsy furniture of a fashion three hundred years

old, about him, and the scanty light entering its shadowy atmosphere through the small lattice. He

kneeled, and the three women with him, and he prayed aloud with an earnest quavering voice for,

what appeared to me, a long time. I forget all my life preceding that event, and for some time after

it is all obscure also, but the scenes I have just described stand out vivid as the isolated pictures of

the phantasmagoria surrounded by darkness.

A GUEST

I am now going to tell you something so strange that it will require all your faith in my veracity to

believe my story. It is not only true, nevertheless, but truth of which I have been an eye-witness.

It was a sweet summer evening, and my father asked me, as he sometimes did, to take a little

ramble with him along that beautiful forest vista which I have mentioned as lying in front of the

schloss.

"General Spielsdorf cannot come to us so soon as I had hoped," said my father, as we pursued our

walk.

He was to have paid us a visit of some weeks, and we had expected his arrival next day. He was to

have brought with him a young lady, his neice and ward, Mademoiselle Rheinfeldt, whom I had

never seen, but whom I had heard described as a very charming girl, and in whose society I had

promised myself many happy days. I was more disappointed than a young lady living in a town, or

a bustling neighbourhood can possibly imagine. This visit, and the new acquaintance it promised,

had furnished my day dream for many weeks.

"And how soon does he come?" I asked.

"Not till autumn. Not for two months, I dare say," he answered. "And I am very glad now, dear,

that you never knew Mademoiselle Rheinfeldt."

"And why?" I asked, both mortified and curious.

"Because the poor young lady is dead," he replied. "I quite forgot I had not told you, but you were

not in the room when I received the General's letter this evening."

I was very much shocked. General Spielsdorf had mentioned in his first letter, six or seven weeks

before, that she was not so well as he would wish her, but there was nothing to suggest the remotest

suspicion of danger.

"Here is the General's letter," he said, handing it to me. "I am afraid he is in great affliction; the

letter appears to me to have been written very nearly in distraction."

We sat down on a rude bench, under a group of magnificent lime-trees. The sun was setting with all

its melancholy splendour behind the sylvan horizon, and the stream that flows beside our home,

and passes under the steep old bridge I have mentioned, wound through many a group of noble

trees, almost at our feet, reflecting in its current the fading crimson of the sky. General Spieldorf's

letter was so extraordinary, so vehement, and in some places so self-contradictory, that I read it

twice over—the second time aloud to my father—and was still unable to account for it, except by

supposing that grief had unsettled his mind.

It said "I have lost my darling daughter, for as such I loved her. During the last days of dear

Bertha's illness I was not able to write to you. Before then I had no idea of her danger. I have lost

her, and now learn all, too late. She died in the peace of innocence, and in the glorious hope of a

blessed futurity. The fiend who betrayed our infatuated hospitality has done it all. I thought I was

receiving into my house innocence, gaiety, a charming companion for my lost Bertha. Heavens!

what a fool have I been! I thank God my child died without a suspicion of the cause of her

sufferings. She is gone without so much as conjecturing the nature of her illness, and the accursed

passion of the agent of all this misery. I devote my remaining days to tracking and extinguishing a monster. I am told I may hope to accomplish my righteous and merciful purpose. At present there

is scarcely a gleam of light to guide me. I curse my conceited incredulity, my despicable affectation

of superiority, my blindness, my obstinacy—all—too late. I cannot write or talk collectedly now. I

am distracted. So soon as I shall have a little recovered, I mean to devote myself for a time to

enquiry, which may possibly lead me as far as Vienna. Some time in the autumn, two months

hence, or earlier if I live, I will see you—that is, if you permit me; I will then tell you all that I

scarce dare put upon paper now. Farewell. Pray for me, dear friend."

In these terms ended this strange letter. Though I had never seen Bertha Rheinfeldt my eyes filled

with tears at the sudden intelligence; I was startled, as well as profoundly disappointed.

The sun had now set, and it was twilight by the time I had returned the General's letter to my

father.

It was a soft clear evening, and we loitered, speculating upon the possible meanings of the violent

and incoherent sentences which I had just been reading. We had nearly a mile to walk before

reaching the road that passes the schloss in front, and by that time the moon was shining brilliantly.

At the drawbridge we met Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, who had come

out, without their bonnets, to enjoy the exquisite moonlight.

We heard their voices gabbling in animated dialogue as we approached. We joined them at the

drawbridge, and turned about to admire with them the beautiful scene.

The glade through which we had just walked lay before us. At our left the narrow road wound

away under clumps of lordly trees, and was lost to sight amid the thickening forest. At the right the

same road crosses the steep and picturesque bridge, near which stands a ruined tower which once

guarded that pass; and beyond the bridge an abrupt eminence rises, covered with trees, and

showing in the shadows some grey ivy-clustered rocks.

Over the sward and low grounds a thin film of mist was stealing, like smoke, marking the

distances with a transparent veil; and here and there we could see the river faintly flashing in the

moonlight.

No softer, sweeter scene could be imagined. The news I had just heard made it melancholy; but

nothing could disturb its character of profound serenity, and the enchanted glory and vagueness of

the prospect.

My father, who enjoyed the picturesque, and I, stood looking in silence over the expanse beneath

us. The two good governesses, standing a little way behind us, discoursed upon the scene, and were

eloquent upon the moon.

Madame Perrodon was fat, middle-aged, and romantic, and talked and sighed poetically.

Mademoiselle De Lafontaine—in right of her father, who was a German, assumed to be

psychological, metaphysical, and something of a mystic—now declared that when the moon shone

with a light so intense it was well known that it indicated a special spiritual activity. The effect of

the full moon in such a state of brilliancy was manifold. It acted on dreams, it acted on lunacy, it

acted on nervous people; it had marvellous physical influences connected with life. Mademoiselle

related that her cousin, who was mate of a merchant ship, having taken a nap on deck on such a

night, lying on his back, with his face full in the light of the moon, had wakened, after a dream of

an old woman clawing him by the cheek, with his features horribly drawn to one side; and his

countenance had never quite recovered its equilibrium.

"The moon, this night," she said, "is full of odylic and magnetic influence—and see, when you look

behind you at the front of the schloss, how all its windows flash and twinkle with that silvery splendour, as if unseen hands had lighted up the rooms to receive fairy guests."

There are indolent states of the spirits in which, indisposed to talk ourselves, the talk of others is

pleasant to our listless ears; and I gazed on, pleased with the tinkle of the ladies' conversation.

"I have got into one of my moping moods to-night," said my father, after a silence, and quoting

Shakespeare, whom, by way of keeping up our English, he used to read aloud, he said:

"'In truth I know not why I am so sad:

It wearies me; you say it wearies you;

But how I got it—came by it.'

"I forget the rest. But I feel as if some great misfortune were hanging over us. I suppose the poor

General's afflicted letter has had something to do with it."

At this moment the unwonted sound of carriage wheels and many hoofs upon the road, arrested our

attention.

They seemed to be approaching from the high ground overlooking the bridge, and very soon the

equipage emerged from that point. Two horsemen first crossed the bridge, then came a carriage

drawn by four horses, and two men rode behind.

It seemed to be the travelling carriage of a person of rank; and we were all immediately absorbed in

watching that very unusual spectacle. It became, in a few moments, greatly more interesting, for

just as the carriage had passed the summit of the steep bridge, one of the leaders, taking fright,

communicated his panic to the rest, and after a plunge or two, the whole team broke into a wild

gallop together, and dashing between the horsemen who rode in front, came thundering along the

road towards us with the speed of a hurricane.

The excitement of the scene was made more painful by the clear, long-drawn screams of a female

voice from the carriage window.

We all advanced in curiosity and horror; my father in silence, the rest with various ejaculations of

terror.

Our suspense did not last long. Just before you reach the castle drawbridge, on the route they were

coming, there stands by the roadside a magnificent lime-tree, on the other stands an ancient stone

cross, at sight of which the horses, now going at a pace that was perfectly frightful, swerved so as

to bring the wheel over the projecting roots of the tree.

I knew what was coming. I covered my eyes, unable to see it out, and turned my head away; at the

same moment I heard a cry from my lady-friends, who had gone on a little.

Curiosity opened my eyes, and I saw a scene of utter confusion. Two of the horses were on the

ground, the carriage lay upon its side with two wheels in the air; the men were busy removing the

traces, and a lady, with a commanding air and figure had got out, and stood with clasped hands,

raising the handkerchief that was in them every now and then to her eyes. Through the carriage

door was now lifted a young lady, who appeared to be lifeless. My dear old father was already

beside the elder lady, with his hat in his hand, evidently tendering his aid and the resources of his

schloss. The lady did not appear to hear him, or to have eyes for anything but the slender girl who

was being placed against the slope of the bank.

I approached; the young lady was apparently stunned, but she was certainly not dead. My father,

who piqued himself on being something of a physician, had just had his fingers to her wrist and assured the lady, who declared herself her mother, that her pulse, though faint and irregular, was

undoubtedly still distinguishable. The lady clasped her hands and looked upward, as if in a

momentary transport of gratitude; but immediately she broke out again in that theatrical way which

is, I believe, natural to some people.

She was what is called a fine looking woman for her time of life, and must have been handsome;

she was tall, but not thin, and dressed in black velvet, and looked rather pale, but with a proud and

commanding countenance, though now agitated strangely.

"Was ever being so born to calamity?" I heard her say, with clasped hands, as I came up. "Here am

I, on a journey of life and death, in prosecuting which to lose an hour is possibly to lose all. My

child will not have recovered sufficiently to resume her route for who can say how long. I must

leave her; I cannot, dare not, delay. How far on, sir, can you tell, is the nearest village? I must

leave her there; and shall not see my darling, or even hear of her till my return, three months

hence."

I plucked my father by the coat, and whispered earnestly in his ear: "Oh! papa, pray ask her to let

her stay with us—it would be so delightful. Do, pray."

"If Madame will entrust her child to the care of my daughter, and of her good gouvernante,

Madame Perrodon, and permit her to remain as our guest, under my charge, until her return, it will

confer a distinction and an obligation upon us, and we shall treat her with all the care and devotion

which so sacred a trust deserves."

"I cannot do that, sir, it would be to task your kindness and chivalry too cruelly," said the lady,

distractedly.

"It would, on the contrary, be to confer on us a very great kindness at the moment when we most

need it. My daughter has just been disappointed by a cruel misfortune, in a visit from which she

had long anticipated a great deal of happiness. If you confide this young lady to our care it will be

her best consolation. The nearest village on your route is distant, and affords no such inn as you

could think of placing your daughter at; you cannot allow her to continue her journey for any

considerable distance without danger. If, as you say, you cannot suspend your journey, you must

part with her tonight, and nowhere could you do so with more honest assurances of care and

tenderness than here."

There was something in this lady's air and appearance so distinguished, and even imposing, and in

her manner so engaging, as to impress one, quite apart from the dignity of her equipage, with a

conviction that she was a person of consequence.

By this time the carriage was replaced in its upright position, . and the horses, quite tractable, in the

traces again.

The lady threw on her daughter a glance which I fancied was not quite so affectionate as one might

have anticipated from the beginning of the scene; then she beckoned slightly to my father, and

withdrew two or three steps with him out of hearing; and talked to him with a fixed and stern

countenance, not at all like that with which she had hitherto spoken.

I was filled with wonder that my father did not seem to perceive the change, and also unspeakably

curious to learn what it could be that she was speaking, almost in his ear, with so much earnestness

and rapidity.

Two or three minutes at most I think she remained thus employed, then she turned, and a few steps

brought her to where her daughter lay, supported by Madame Perrodon. She kneeled beside her for a moment and whispered, as Madame supposed, a little benediction in her ear; then hastily kissing

her she stepped into her carriage, the door was closed, the footmen in stately liveries jumped up

behind, the outriders spurred on, the postillions cracked their whips, the horses plunged and broke

suddenly into a furious canter that threatened soon again to become a gallop, and the carriage

whirled away, followed at the same rapid pace by the two horsemen in the rear.

WE COMPARE NOTES

We followed the cortège with our eyes until it was swiftly lost to sight in the misty wood; and the

very sound of the hoofs and the wheels died away in the silent night air.

Nothing remained to assure us that the adventure had not been an illusion of a moment but the

young lady, who just at that moment opened her eyes. I could not see, for her face was turned from

me, but she raised her head, evidently looking about her, and I heard a very sweet voice ask

complainingly, "Where is mamma?"

Our good Madame Perrodon answered tenderly, and added some comfortable assurances.

I then heard her ask:

"Where am I? What is this place?" and after that she said, "I don't see the carriage; and Matska,

where is she?"

Madame answered all her questions in so far as she understood them; and gradually the young lady

remembered how the misadventure came about, and was glad to hear that no one in, or in

attendance on, the carriage was hurt; and on learning that her mamma had left her here, till her

return in about three months, she wept.

I was going to add my consolations to those of Madame Perrodon when Mademoiselle De

Lafontaine placed her hand upon my arm, saying:

"Don't approach, one at a time is as much as she can at present converse with; a very little

excitement would possibly overpower her now."

As soon as she is comfortably in bed, I thought, I will run up to her room and see her.

My father in the meantime had sent a servant on horseback for the physician, who lived about two

leagues away; and a bedroom was being prepared for the young lady's reception.

The stranger now rose, and leaning on Madame's arm, walked slowly over the drawbridge and into

the castle gate.

In the hall, servants waited to receive her, and she was conducted forthwith to her room.

The room we usually sat in as our drawing-room is long, having four windows, that looked over

the moat and drawbridge, upon the forest scene I have just described.

It is furnished in old carved oak, with large carved cabinets, and the chairs are cushioned with

crimson Utrecht velvet. The walls are covered with tapestry, and surrounded with great gold

frames, the figures being as large as life, in ancient and very curious costume, and the subjects

represented are hunting, hawking, and generally festive. It is not too stately to be extremely

comfortable; and here we had our tea, for with his usual patriotic leanings he insisted that the

national beverage should make its appearance regularly with our coffee and chocolate.

We sat here this night, and with candles lighted, were talking over the adventure of the evening.

Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle De Lafontaine were both of our party. The young stranger

had hardly lain down in her bed when she sank into a deep sleep; and those ladies had left her in the

care of a servant. "How do you like our guest?" I asked, as soon as Madame entered. "Tell me all about her?"

"I like her extremely," answered Madame, "she is, I almost think, the prettiest creature I ever saw;

about your age, and so gentle and nice."

"She is absolutely beautiful," threw in Mademoiselle, who had peeped for a moment into the

stranger's room.

"And such a sweet voice!" added Madame Perrodon.

"Did you remark a woman in the carriage, after it was set up again, who did not get out," inquired

Mademoiselle, "but only looked from the window?"

"No, we had not seen her."

Then she described a hideous black woman, with a sort of coloured turban on her head, who was

gazing all the time from the carriage window, nodding and grinning derisively towards the ladies,

with gleaming eyes and large white eye-balls, and her teeth set as if in fury.

"Did you remark what an ill-looking pack of men the servants were?" asked Madame.

"Yes," said my father, who had just come in, "ugly, hang-dog looking fellows, as ever I beheld in

my life. I hope they mayn't rob the poor lady in the forest. They are clever rogues, however; they

got everything to rights in a minute."

"I dare say they are worn out with too long travelling," said Madame. "Besides looking wicked,

their faces were so strangely lean, and dark, and sullen. I am very curious, I own; but I dare say the

young lady will tell us all about it to-morrow, if she is sufficiently recovered."

"I don't think she will," said my father, with a mysterious smile, and a little nod of his head, as if he

knew more about it than he cared to tell us.

This made me all the more inquisitive as to what had passed beeween him and the lady in the black

velvet, in the brief but earnest interview that had immediately preceded her departure.

We were scarcely alone, when I entreated him to tell me. He did not need much pressing.

"There is no particular reason why I should not tell you. She expressed a reluctance to trouble us

with the care of her daughter, saying she was in delicate health? and nervous, but not subject to any

kind of seizure—she volunteered that—nor to any illusion; being, in fact, perfectly sane."

"How very odd to say all that!" I interpolated. "It was so unnecessary."

"At all events it was said," he laughed, "and as you wish to know all that passed, which was indeed

very little, I tell you. She then said, "I am making a long journey of vital importance—she

emphasized the word—rapid and secret; I shall return for my child in three months; in the

meantime, she will be silent as to who we are, whence we come, and whither we are travelling."

That is all she said. She spoke very pure French. When she said the word "secret," she paused for a

few seconds, looking sternly, her eyes fixed on mine. I fancy she makes a great point of that. You

saw how quickly she was gone. I hope I have not done a very foolish thing, in taking charge of the

young lady."

For my part, I was delighted. I was longing to see and talk to her; and only waiting till the doctor

should give me leave. You, who live in towns, can have no idea how great an event the

introduction of a new friend is, in such a solitude as surrounded us. The doctor did not arrive till nearly one o'clock; but I could no more have gone to my bed and slept,

than I could have overtaken, on foot, the carriage in which the princess in black velvet had driven

away. When the physician came down to the drawing-room, it was to report very favourably upon

his patient. She was now sitting up, her pulse quite regular, apparently perfectly well. She had

sustained no injury, and the little shock to her nerves had passed away quite harmlessly. There

could be no harm certainly in my seeing her, if we both wished it; and, with this permission, I sent,

forthwith, to know whether she would allow me to visit her for a few minutes in her room.

The servant returned immediately to say that she desired nothing more. You may be sure I was not

long in availing myself of this permission.

Our visitor lay in one of the handsomest rooms in the schloss. It was, perhaps, a little stately. There

was a sombre piece of tapestry opposite the foot of the bed, representing Cleopatra with the asps to

her bosom; and other solemn classic scenes were displayed, a little faded, upon the other walls. But

there was gold carving, and rich and varied colour enough in the other decorations of the room, to

more than redeem the gloom of the old tapestry.

There were candles at the bed side. She was sitting up; her slender pretty figure enveloped in the

soft silk dressing gown, embroidered with flowers, and lined with thick quilted silk, which her

mother had thrown over her feet as she lay upon the ground.

What was it that, as I reached the bed-side and had just begun my little greeting, struck me dumb in

a moment, and made me recoil a step or two from before her? I will tell you.

I saw the very face which had visited me in my childhood at night, which remained so fixed in my

memory, and on which I had for so many years so often ruminated with horror, when no one

suspected of what I was thinking.

It was pretty, even beautiful; and when I first beheld it, wore the same melancholy expression.

But this almost instantly lighted into a strange fixed smile of recognition.

There was a silence of fully a minute, and then at length she spoke; I could not.

"How wonderful!" she exclaimed, "Twelve years ago, I saw your face in a dream, and it has

haunted me ever since."

"Wonderful indeed!" I repeated, overcoming with an effort the horror that had for a time suspended

my utterances. "Twelve years ago, in vision or reality, I certainly saw you. I could not forget your

face. It has remained before my eyes ever since."

Her smile had softened. Whatever I had fancied strange in it, was gone, and it and her dimpling

cheeks were now delightfully pretty and intelligent.

I felt reassured, and continued more in the vein which hospitality indicated, to bid her welcome,

and to tell her how much pleasure her accidental arrival had given us all, and especially what a

happiness it was to me.

I took her hand as I spoke. I was a little shy, as lonely people are, but the situation made me

eloquent, and even bold. She pressed my hand, she laid hers upon it, and her eyes glowed, as,

looking hastily into mine, she smiled again, and blushed.

She answered my welcome very prettily. I sat down beside her, still wondering; and she said:

"I must tell you my vision about you; it is so very strange that you and I should have had, each of the other so vivid a dream, that each should have seen, I you and you me, looking as we do now,

when of course we both were mere children. I was a child, about six years old, and I awoke from a

confused and troubled dream, and found myself in a room, unlike my nursery, wainscoted clumsily

in some dark wood, and with cupboards and bedsteads, and chairs, and benches placed about it.

The beds were, I thought, all empty, and the room itself without anyone but myself in it; and I, after

looking about me for some time, and admiring especially an iron candlestick, with two branches,

which I should certainly know again, crept under one of the beds to reach the window; but as I got

from under the bed, I heard some one crying; and looking up, while I was still upon my knees, I

saw you—most assuredly you—as I see you now; a beautiful young lady, with golden hair and

large blue eyes, and lips—your lips—you, as you are here. Your looks won me; I climbed on the

bed and put my arms about you, and I think we both fell asleep. I was aroused by a scream; you

were sitting up screaming. I was frightened, and slipped down upon the ground, and, it seemed to

me, lost consciousness for a moment; and when I came to myself, I was again in my nursery at

home. Your face I have never forgotten since. I could not be misled by mere resemblance. You are

the lady whom I then saw."

It was now my turn to relate my corresponding vision, which I did, to the undisguised wonder of

my new acquaintance.

"I don't know which should be most afraid of the other," she said, again smiling—"If you were less

pretty I think I should be very much afraid of you, but being as you are, and you and I both so

young, I feel only that I have made your acquaintance twelve years ago, and have already a right to

your intimacy; at all events it does seem as if we were destined, from our earliest childhood, to be

friends. I wonder whether you feel as strangely drawn towards me as I do to you; I have never had

a friend—shall I find one now?" She sighed, and her fine dark eyes gazed passionately on me.

Now the truth is, I felt rather unaccountably towards the beautiful stranger. I did feel, as she said,

"drawn towards her," but there was also something of repulsion. In this ambiguous feeling,

however, the sense of attraction immensely prevailed. She interested and won me; she was so

beautiful and so indescribably engaging.

I perceived now something of langour and exhaustion stealing over her, and hastened to bid her

good night.

"The doctor thinks," I added, "that you ought to have a maid to sit up with you tonight; one of ours

is waiting, and you will find her a very useful and quiet creature."

"How kind of you, but I could not sleep, I never could with an attendant in the room. I shan't

require any assistance—and, shall I confess my weakness, I am haunted with a terror of robbers.

Our house was robbed once, and two servants murdered, so I always lock my door. It has become a

habit—and you look so kind I know you will forgive me. I see there is a key in the lock."

She held me close in her pretty arms for a moment and whispered in my ear, "Good night, darling,

it is very hard to part with you, but good-night; to-morrow, but not early, I shall see you again."

She sank back on the pillow with a sigh, and her fine eyes followed me with a fond and melancholy

gaze, and she murmured again "Good night, dear friend."

Young people like, and even love, on impulse. I was flattered by the evident, though as yet

undeserved, fondness she showed me. I liked the confidence with which she at once received me.

She was determined that we should be very near friends.

Next day came and we met again. I was delighted with my companion; that is to say, in many

respects. Her looks lost nothing in daylight—she was certainly the most beautiful creature I had ever seen,

and the unpleasant remembrance of the face presented in my early dream, had lost the effect of the

first unexpected recognition.

She confessed that she had experienced a similar shock on seeing me, and precisely the same faint

antipathy that had mingled with my admiration of her. We now laughed together over our

momentary horrors.

HER HABITS—A SAUNTER

I told you that I was charmed with her in most particulars.

There were some that did not please me so well.

She was above the middle height of women. I shall begin by describing her. She was slender, and

wonderfully graceful. Except that her movements were languid — very languid—indeed, there was

nothing in her appearance to indicate an invalid. Her complexion was rich and brilliant; her

features were small and beautifully formed; her eyes large, dark, and lustrous; her hair was quite

wonderful, I never saw hair so magnificently thick and long when it was down about her

shoulders; I have often placed my hands under it, and laughed with wonder at its weight. It was

exquisitely fine and soft, and in colour a rich very dark brown, with something of gold. I loved to

let it down, tumbling with its own weight, as, in her room, she lay back in her chair talking, in her

sweet low voice, I used to fold and braid it, and spread it out and play with it. Heavens! If I had but

known all!

I said there were particulars which did not please me. I have told you that her confidence won me

the first night I saw her; but I found that she exercised with respect to herself, her mother, her

history, everything in fact connected with her life, plans, and people, an ever wakeful reserve. I

dare say I was unreasonable, perhaps I was wrong; I dare say I ought to have respected the solemn

injunction laid upon my father by the stately lady in black velvet. But curiosity is a restless and

unscrupulous passion, and no one girl can endure, with patience, that her's should be baffled by

another. What harm could it do anyone to tell me what I so ardently desired to know? Had she no

trust in my good sense or honour? Why would she not believe me when I assured her, so solemnly,

that I would not divulge one syllable of what she told me to any mortal breathing.

There was a coldness, it seemed to me, beyond her years, in her smiling melancholy persistent

refusal to afford me the least ray of light.

I cannot say we quarrelled upon this point, for she would not quarrel upon any. It was, of course,

very unfair of me to press her, very ill-bred, but I really could not help it; and I might just as well

have let it alone.

What she did tell me amounted, in my unconscionable estimation—to nothing. It was all summed

up in three very vague disclosures:

First.—Her name was Carmilla.

Second.—Her family was very ancient and noble.

Third.—Her home lay in the direction of the west.

She would not tell me the name of her family, nor their armorial bearings, nor the name of their

estate, nor even that of the country they lived in.

You are not to suppose that I worried her incessantly on these subjects. I watched opportunity, and

rather insinuated than urged my inquiries. Once or twice, indeed, I did attack her more directly. But

no matter what my tactics, utter failure was invariably the result. Reproaches and caresses were all

lost upon her. But I must add this, that her evasion was conducted with so pretty a melancholy and

deprecation, with so many, and even passionate declarations of her liking for me, and trust in my

honour, and with so many promises that I should at last know all, that I could not find it in my heart long to be offended with her.

She used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me to her, and laying her cheek to mine,

murmur with her lips near my ear, "Dearest, your little heart is wounded; think me not cruel

because I obey the irresistible law of my strength and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my

wild heart bleeds with yours. In the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live in your warm life,

and you shall die—die, sweetly die—into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in your

turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a

while, seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit."

And when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely in her trembling

embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently glow upon my cheek.

Her agitations and her language were unintelligible to me.

From these foolish embraces, which were not of very frequent occurrence, I must allow, I used to

wish to extricate myself; but my energies seemed to fail me, Her murmured words sounded like a

lullaby in my ear, and soothed my resistance into a trance, from which I only seemed to recover

myself when she withdrew her arms.

In these mysterious moods I did not like her. I experienced a strange tumultuous excitement that

was pleasurable, ever and anon, mingled with a vague sense of fear and disgust. I had no distinct

thoughts about her while such scenes lasted, but I was conscious of a love growing into adoration,

and also of abhorrence. This I know is paradox, but I can make no other attempt to explain the

feeling.

I now write, after an interval of more than ten years, with a trembling hand, with a confused and

horrible recollection of certain occurrences and situations, in the ordeal through which I was

unconsciously passing; though with a vivid and very sharp remembrance of the main current of my

story. But, I suspect, in all lives there are certain emotional scenes, those in which our passions

have been most wildly and terribly roused, that are of all others the most vaguely and dimly

remembered.

Sometimes after an hour of apathy, my strange and beautiful companion would take my hand and

hold it with a fond pressure, renewed again and again; blushing softly, gazing 'in my face with

languid and burning eyes, and breathing so fast that her dress rose and fell with the tumultuous

respiration. It was like the ardour of a lover; it embarrassed me; it was hateful and yet

overpowering; and with gloating eyes she drew me to her, and her hot lips travelled along my cheek

in kisses; and she would whisper, almost in sobs, "You are mine, you shall be mine, you and I are

one for ever." Then she has thrown herself back in her chair, with her small hands over her eyes,

leaving me trembling.

"Are we related," I used to ask; "what can you mean by all this? I remind you perhaps of some one

whom you love; but you must not, I hate it; I don't know you—I don't know myself when you look

so and talk so."

She used to sigh at my vehemence, then turn away and drop my hand.

Respecting these very extraordinary manifestations I strove in vain to form any satisfactory theory

—I could not refer them to affectation or trick. It was unmistakably the momentary breaking out of

suppressed instinct and emotion. Was she, notwithstanding her mother's volunteered denial, subject

to brief visitations of insanity; or was there here a disguise and a romance? I had read in old story

books of such things. What if a boyish lover had found his way into the house, and sought to

prosecute his suit in masquerade, with the assistance of a clever old adventuress. But there were many things against this hypothesis, highly interesting as it was to my vanity.

I could boast of no little attentions such as masculine gallantry delights to offer. Between these

passionate moments there were long intervals of common-place, of gaiety, of brooding

melancholy, during which, except that I detected her eyes so full of melancholy fire, following me,

at times I might have been as nothing to her. Except in these brief periods of mysterious excitement

her ways were girlish; and there was always a langour about her, quite incompatible with a

masculine system in a state of health.

In some respects her habits were odd. Perhaps not so singular in the opinion of a town lady like

you, as they appeared to us rustic people. She used to come down very late, generally not till one

o'clock, she would then take a cup of chocolate, but eat nothing; we then went out for a walk,

which was a mere saunter, and she seemed, almost immediately, exhausted, and either returned to

the schloss or sat on one of the benches that were placed, here and there, among the trees. This was

a bodily langour in which her mind did not sympathise. She was always an animated talker, and

very intelligent.

She sometimes alluded for a moment to her own home, or mentioned an adventure or situation, or

an early recollection, which indicated a people of strange manners, and described customs of which

we knew nothing. I gathered from these chance hints that her native country was much more

remote than I had at first fancied.

As we sat thus one afternoon under the trees a funeral passed us by. It was that of a pretty young

girl, whom I had often seen, the daughter of one of the rangers of the forest. The poor man was

walking behind the coffin of his darling; she was his only child, and he looked quite heartbroken.

Peasants walking two-and-two came behind, they were singing a funeral hymn.

I rose to mark my respect as they passed, and joined in the hymn they were very sweetly singing.

My companion shook me a little roughly, and I turned surprised.

She said brusquely, "Don't you perceive how discordant that is?"

"I think it very sweet, on the contrary," I answered, vexed at the interruption, and very

uncomfortable, lest the people who composed the little procession should observe and resent what

was passing.

I resumed, therefore, instantly, and was again interrupted. "You pierce my ears," said Carmilla,

almost angrily, and stopping her ears with her tiny fingers. "Besides, how can you tell that your

religion and mine are the same; your forms wound me, and I hate funerals. What a fuss! Why you

must die —everyone must die; and all are happier when they do. Come home."

"My father has gone on with the clergyman to the churchyard. I thought you knew she was to be

buried to day."

"She? I don't trouble my head about peasants. I don't know who she is," answered Carmilla, with a

flash from her fine eyes.

"She is the poor girl who fancied she saw a ghost a fortnight ago, and has been dying ever since,

till yesterday, when she expired."

"Tell me nothing about ghosts. I shan't sleep to-night, if you do."

"I hope there is no plague or fever coming; all this looks very like it," I continued. "The

swineherd's young wife died only a week ago, and she thought something seized her by the throat as she lay in her bed, and nearly strangled her. Papa says such horrible fancies do accompany some

forms of fever. She was quite well the day before. She sank afterwards, and died before a week."

"Well, her funeral is over, I hope, and her hymn sung; and our ears shan't be tortured with that

discord and jargon. It has made me nervous. Sit down here, beside me; sit close; hold my hand;

press it hard—hard—harder."

We had moved a little back, and had come to another seat.

She sat down. Her face underwent a change that alarmed and even terrified me for a moment. It

darkened, and became horribly livid; her teeth and hands were clenched, and she frowned and

compressed her hps, while she stared down upon the ground at her feet, and trembled all over with

a continued shudder as irrepressible as ague. All her energies seemed strained to suppress a fit, with

which she was then breathlessly tugging; and at length a low convulsive cry of suffering broke

from her, and gradually the hysteria subsided. "There! That comes of strangling people with

hymns!" she said at last. "Hold me, hold me still. It is passing away."

And so gradually it did; and perhaps to dissipate the sombre impression which the spectacle had

left upon me, she became unusually animated and chatty; and so we got home.

This was the first time I had seen her exhibit any definable symptoms of that delicacy of health

which her mother had spoken of. It was the first time, also, I had seen her exhibit anything like

temper.

Both passed away like a summer cloud; and never but once afterwards did I witness on her part a

momentary sign of anger. I will tell you how it happened.

She and I were looking out of one of the long drawing-room windows, when there entered the

court-yard, over the drawbridge, a figure of a wanderer whom I knew very well. He used to visit

the schloss generally twice a year.

It was the figure of a hunchback, with the sharp lean features that generally accompany deformity.

He wore a pointed black beard, and he was smiling from ear to ear, showing his white fangs. He

was dressed in buff, black, and scarlet, and crossed with more straps and belts than I could count,

from which hung all manner of things. Behind, he carried a magic-lantern, and two boxes, which I

well knew, in one of which was a salamander, and in the other a mandrake. These monsters used to

make my father laugh. They were compounded of parts of monkeys, parrots, squirrels, fish, and

hedgehogs, dried and stitched together with great neatness and startling effect. He had a fiddle, a

box of conjuring apparatus, a pair of foils and masks attached to his belt, several other mysterious

cases dangling about him, and a black staff with copper ferrules in his hand. His companion was a

rough spare dog, that followed at his heels, but stopped short, suspiciously at the drawbridge, and

in a little while began to howl dismally.

In the meantime, the mountebank, standing in the midst of the court-yard, raised his grotesque hat,

and made us a very ceremonious bow, paying his compliments very volubly in execrable French,

and German not much better. Then, disengaging his fiddle, he began to scrape a lively air, to which

he sang with a merry discord, dancing with ludicrous airs and activity, that made me laugh, in spite

of the dog's howling.

Then he advanced to the window with many smiles and salutations, and his hat in his left hand, his

fiddle under his arm, and with a fluency that never took breath, he gabbled a long advertisement of

all his accomplishments, and the resources of the various arts which he placed at our service, and

the curiosities and entertainments which it was in his power, at our bidding, to display. "Will your ladyships be pleased to buy an amulet against the oupire, which is going like the wolf, I

hear, through these woods," he said, dropping his hat on the pavement.

"They are dying of it right and left, and here is a charm that never fails; only pinned to the pillow,

and you may laugh in his face."

These charms consisted of oblong slips of vellum, with cabalistic ciphers and diagrams upon them.

Carmilla instantly purchased one, and so did I.

He was looking up, and we were smiling down upon him, amused; at least, I can answer for

myself. His piercing black eye, as he looked up in our faces, seemed to detect something that fixed

for a moment his curiosity.

In an instant he unrolled a leather case, full of all manner of odd little steel instruments.

"See here, my lady," he said, displaying it, and addressing me, "I profess, among other things less

useful, the art of dentistry. Plague take the dog!" he interpolated.

"Silence, beast! He howls so that your ladyships can scarcely hear a word. Your noble friend, the

young lady at your right, has the sharpest tooth,—long, thin, pointed, like an awl, like a needle; ha,

ha! With my sharp and long sight, as I look up, I have seen it distinctly; now if it happens to hurt

the young lady, and I think it must, here am I, here are my file, my punch, my nippers; I will make

it round and blunt, if her ladyship pleases; no longer the tooth of a fish, but of a beautiful young

lady as she is. Hey? Is the young lady displeased? Have I been too bold? Have I offended her?"

The young lady, indeed, looked very angry as she drew back from the window.

"How dares that mountebank insult us so? Where is your father? I shall demand redress from him.

My father would have had the wretch tied up to the pump, and flogged with a cart-whip, and burnt

to the bones with the castle brand!"

She retired from the window a step or two, and sat down, and had hardly lost sight of the offender,

when her wrath subsided as suddenly as it had risen, and she gradually recovered her usual tone,

and seemed to forget the little hunchback and his follies.

My father was out of spirits that evening. On coming in he told us that there had been another case

very similar to the two fatal ones which had lately occurred. The sister of a young peasant on his

estate, only a mile away, was very ill, had been, as she described it, attacked very nearly in the

same way, and was now slowly but steadily sinking.

"All this," said my father, "is strictly referable to natural causes. These poor people infect one

another with their superstitions, and so repeat in imagination the images of terror that have infested

their neighbours."

"But that very circumstance frightens one horribly," said Carmilla.

"How so?" inquired my father.

"I am so afraid of fancying I see such things; I think it would be as bad as reality."

"We are in God's hands; nothing can happen without his permission, and all will end well for those

who love him. He is our faithful creator; He has made us all, and will take care of us."

"Creator! Nature!" said the young lady in answer to my gentle father. "And this disease that invades the country is natural. Nature. All things proceed from Nature — don't they? All things in

the heaven, in the earth, and under the earth, act and live as Nature ordains? I think so."

"The doctor said he would come here today," said my father, after a silence. "I want to know what

he thinks about it, and what he thinks we had better do."

"Doctors never did me any good," said Carmilla.

"Then you have been ill?" I asked.

"More ill than ever you were," she answered.

"Long ago?"

"Yes, a long time. I suffered from this very illness; but I forget all but my pain and weakness, and

they were not so bad as are suffered in other diseases."

"You were very young then?"

"I dare say; let us talk no more of it. You would not wound a friend?" She looked languidly in my

eyes, and passed her arm round my waist lovingly, and led me out of the room. My father was busy

over some papers near the window.

"Why does your papa like to frighten us?" said the pretty girl, with a sigh and a little shudder.

"He doesn't, dear Carmilla, it is the very furthest thing from his mind."

"Are you afraid, dearest?"

"I should be very much if I fancied there was any real danger of my being attacked as those poor

people were."

"You are afraid to die?"

"Yes, every one is."

"But to die as lovers may—to die together, so that they may live together. Girls are caterpillars

while they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes; but in the meantime

there are grubs and larvae, don't you see—each with their peculiar propensities, necessities and

structure. So says Monsieur Buffon, in his big book, in the next room."

Later in the day the doctor came, and was closeted with papa for some time. He was a skilful man,

of sixty and upwards, he wore powder, and shaved his pale face as smooth as a pumpkin. He and

papa emerged from the room together, and I heard papa laugh, and say as they came out:

"Well, I do wonder at a wise man like you. What do you say to hippogriffs and dragons?"

The doctor was smiling, and made answer, shaking his head—

"Nevertheless life and death are mysterious states, and we know little of the resources of either."

And so they walked on, and I heard no more. I did not then know what the doctor had been

broaching, but I think I guess it now.

A WONDERFUL LIKENESS

This evening there arrived from Gratz the grave, dark-faced son of the picture cleaner, with a horse

and cart laden with two large packing cases, having many pictures in each. It was a journey of ten

leagues, and whenever a messenger arrived at the schloss from our little capital of Gratz, we used

to crowd about him in the hall, to hear the news.

This arrival created in our secluded quarters quite a sensation. The cases remained in the hall, and

the messenger was taken charge of by the servants till he had eaten his supper. Then with

assistants, and armed with hammer, ripping-chisel, and turnscrew, he met us in the hall, where we

had assembled to witness the unpacking of the cases.

Carmilla sat looking listlessly on, while one after the other the old pictures, nearly all portraits,

which had undergone the process of renovation, were brought to light. My mother was of an old

Hungarian family, and most of these pictures, which were about to be restored to their places, had

come to us through her.

My father had a list in his hand, from which he read, as the artist rummaged out the coresponding

numbers. I don't know that the pictures were very good, but they were, undoubtedly, very old, and

some of them very curious also. They had, for the most part, the merit of being now seen by me, I

may say, for the first time; for the smoke and dust of time had all but obliterated them.

"There is a picture that I have not seen yet," said my father. "In one corner, at the top of it, is the

name, as well as I could read, 'Marcia Karnstein,' and the date '1698;' and I am curious to see how

it has turned out."

I remembered it; it was a small picture, about a foot and a half high, and nearly square, without a

frame; but it was so blackened by age that I could not make it out.

The artist now produced it, with evident pride. It was quite beautiful; it was startling; it seemed to

live. It was the effigy of Carmilla!

"Carmilla, dear, here is an absolute miracle. Here you are, living, smiling, ready to speak, in this

picture. Isn't it beautiful, papa? And see, even the little mole on her throat."

My father laughed, and said "Certainly it is a wonderful likeness," but he looked away, and to my

surprise seemed but little struck by it, and went on talking to the picture cleaner, who was also

something of an artist, and discoursed with intelligence about the portraits or other works, which

his art had just brought into light and colour, while I was more and more lost in wonder the more I

looked at the picture.

"Will you let me hang this picture in my room, papa?" I asked.

"Certainly, dear," said he, smiling, "I'm very glad you think it so like. It must be prettier even than I

thought it, if it is."

The young lady did not acknowledge this pretty speech, did not seem to hear it. She was leaning

back in her seat, her fine eyes under their long lashes gazing on me in contemplation, and she

smiled in a kind of rapture.

"And now you can read quite plainly the name that is written in the corner. It is not Marcia; it

looks as if it was done in gold. The name is Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, and this is a little

coronet over it, and underneath a.d. 1698. I am descended from the Karnsteins; that is, mamma was."

"Ah!" said the lady, languidly, "so am I, I think, a very long descent, very ancient. Are there any

Karnsteins living now?"

"None who bear the name, I believe. The family were ruined, I believe, in some civil wars, long

ago, but the ruins of the castle are only about three miles away."

"How interesting!" she said, languidly. "But see what beautiful moonlight!" She glanced through

the hall-door, which stood a little open. "Suppose you take a little ramble round the court, and look

down at the road and river."

"It is so like the night you came to us," I said.

She sighed, smiling.

She rose, and each with her arm about the other's waist, we walked out upon the pavement.

In silence, slowly we walked down to the drawbridge, where the beautiful landscape opened before

us.

"And so you were thinking of the night I came here?" she almost whispered. "Are you glad I

came?"

"Delighted, dear Carmilla," I answered.

"And you asked for the picture you think like me, to hang in your room," she murmured with a

sigh, as she drew her arm closer about my waist, and let her pretty head sink upon my shoulder.

"How romantic you are, Carmilla," I said. "Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up

chiefly of some one great romance."

She kissed me silently.

"I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart

going on."

"I have been in love with no one, and never shall," she whispered, "unless it should be with you."

How beautiful she looked in the moonlight!"

Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with

tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled.

Her soft cheek was glowing against mine.

"Darling, darling," she murmured, "I live in you; and you would die for me, I love you so."

I started from her.

She was gazing on me with eyes from which all fire, all meaning had flown, and a face colourless

and apathetic.

"Is there a chill in the air, dear?" she said drowsily. "I almost shiver; have I been dreaming? Let us

come in. Come; come; come in." "You look ill, Carmilla; a little faint. You certainly must take some wine," I said.

"Yes, I will. I'm better now. I shall be quite well in a few minutes. Yes, do give me a little wine,"

answered Carmilla, as we approached the door. "Let us look again for a moment; it is the last time,

perhaps, I shall see the moonlight with you."

"How do you feel now, dear Carmilla? Are you really better?" I asked.

I was beginning to take alarm, lest she should have been stricken with the strange epidemic that

they said had invaded the country about us.

"Papa would be grieved beyond measure," I added, "if he thought you were ever so little ill,

without immediately letting us know. We have a very skilful doctor near this, the physician who

was with papa to-day."

"I'm sure he is. I know how kind you all are; but, dear child, I am quite well again. There is

nothing ever wrong with me, but a little weakness. People say I am languid; I am incapable of

exertion; I can scarcely walk as far as a child of three years old; and every now and then the little

strength I have falters, and I become as you have just seen me. But after all I am very easily set up

again; in a moment I am perfectly myself. See how I have recovered."

So, indeed, she had; and she and I talked a great deal, and very animated she was; and the

remainder of that evening passed without any recurrence of what I called her infatuations. I mean

her crazy talk and looks, which embarrassed, and even frightened me.

But there occurred that night an event which gave my thoughts quite a new turn, and seemed to

startle even Carmilla's languid nature into momentary energy.

A VERY STRANGE AGONY

When we got into the drawing-room, and had sat down to our coffee and chocolate, although

Carmilla did not take any, she seemed quite herself again, and Madame, and Mademoiselle De

Lafontaine, joined us, and made a little card party, in the course of which papa came in for what he

called his "dish of tea."

When the game was over he sat down beside Carmilla on the sofa, and asked her, a little anxiously,

whether she had heard from her mother since her arrival.

She answered "No."

He then asked whether she knew where a letter would reach her at present.

"I cannot tell," she answered ambiguously, "but I have been thinking of leaving you; you have been

already too hospitable and too kind to me. I have given you an infinity of trouble, and I should wish

to take a carriage to-morrow, and post in pursuit of her; I know where I shall ultimately find her,

although I dare not yet tell you,"

"But you must not dream of any such thing," exclaimed my father, to my great relief. "We can't

afford to lose you so, and I won't consent to your leaving us, except under the care of your mother,

who was so good as to consent to your remaining with us till she should herself return. I should be

quite happy if I knew that you heard from her; but this evening the accounts of the progress of the

mysterious disease that has invaded our neighbourhood, grow even more alarming; and my

beautiful guest, I do feel the responsibility, unaided by advice from your mother, very much. But I

shall do my best; and one thing is certain, that you must not think of leaving us without her distinct

direction to that effect. We should suffer too much in parting from you to consent to it easily."

"Thank you, sir, a thousand times for your hospitality," she answered, smiling bashfully. "You

have all been too kind to me; I have seldom been so happy in all my life before, as in your beautiful

château, under your care, and in the society of your dear daughter."

So he gallantly, in his old-fashioned way, kissed her hand, smiling and pleased at her little speech.

I accompanied Carmilla as usual to her room, and sat and chatted with her while she was preparing

for bed.

"Do you think," I said at length, "that you will ever confide fully in me?"

She turned round smiling, but made no answer, only continued to smile on me.

"You won't answer that?" I said. "You can't answer pleasantly; I ought not to have asked you."

"You were quite right to ask me that, or anything. You do not know how dear you are to me, or

you could not think any confidence too great to look for. But I am under vows, no nun half so

awfully, and I dare not tell my story yet, even to you. The time is very near when you shall know

everything. You will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish; the more ardent the

more selfish. How jealous I am you cannot know. You must come with me, loving me, to death; or

else hate me and still come with me, and hating me through death and after. There is no such word

as indifference in my apathetic nature."

"Now, Carmilla, you are going to talk your wild nonsense again," I said hastily.

"Not I, silly little fool as I am, and full of whims and fancies; for your sake I'll talk like a sage.

Were you ever at a ball?"

"No; how you do run on. What is it like? How charming it must be."

"I almost forget, it is years ago." I laughed.

"You are not so old. Your first ball can hardly be forgotten yet."

"I remember everything about it—with an effort. I see it all, as divers see what is going on above

them, through a medium, dense, rippling, but transparent. There occurred that night what has

confused the picture, and made its colours faint. I was all but assassinated in my bed, wounded

here," she touched her breast, "and never was the same since."

"Were you near dying?"

"Yes, very—a cruel love—strange love, that would have taken my life. Love will have its

sacrifices. No sacrifice without blood. Let us go to sleep now; I feel so lazy. How can I get up just

now and lock my door?"

She was lying with her tiny hands buried in her rich wavy hair, under her cheek, her little head

upon the pillow, and her glittering eyes followed me wherever I moved, with a kind of shy smile

that I could not decipher.

I bid her good-night, and crept from the room with an uncomfortable sensation.

I often wondered whether our pretty guest ever said her prayers. I certainly had never seen her upon

her knees. In the morning she never came down until long after our family prayers were over, and

at night she never left the drawing-room to attend our brief evening prayers in the hall.

If it had not been that it had casually come out in one of our careless talks that she had been

baptised, I should have doubted her being a Christian. Religion was a subject on which I had never

heard her speak a word. If I had known the world better, this particular neglect or antipathy would

not have so much surprised me.

The precautions of nervous people are infectious, and persons of a like temperament are pretty

sure, after a time, to imitate them. I had adopted Carmilla's habit of locking her bed-room door,

having taken into my head all her whimsical alarms about midnight invaders and prowling

assassins. I had also adopted her precaution of making a brief search through her room, to satisfy

herself that no lurking assassin or robber was "ensconced."

These wise measures taken, I got into my bed and fell asleep. A light was burning in my room. This

was an old habit, of very early date, and which nothing could have tempted me to dispense with.

Thus fortified I might take my rest in peace. But dreams come through stone walls, light up dark

rooms, or darken light ones, and their persons make their exits and their entrances as they please,

and laugh at locksmiths.

I had a dream that night that was the beginning of a very strange agony.

I cannot call it a nightmare, for I was quite conscious of being asleep. But I was equally conscious

of being in my room, and lying in bed, precisely as I actually was. I saw, or fancied I saw, the room

and its furniture just as I had seen it last, except that it was very dark, and I saw something moving

round the foot of the bed, which at first I could not accurately distinguish. But I soon saw that it

was a sooty-black animal that resembled a monstrous cat. It appeared to me about four or five feet long, for it measured fully the length of the hearth-rug as it passed over it; and it continued toing

and froing with the lithe sinister restlessness of a beast in a cage. I could not cry out, although as

you may suppose, I was terrified. Its pace was growing faster, and the room rapidly darker and

darker, and at length so dark that I could no longer see anything of it but its eyes. I felt it spring

lightly on the bed. The two broad eyes approached my face, and suddenly I felt a stinging pain as if

two large needles darted, an inch or two apart, deep into my breast. I waked with a scream. The

room was lighted by the candle that burnt there all through the night, and I saw a female figure

standing at the foot of the bed, a little at the right side. It was in a dark loose dress, and its hair was

down and covered its shoulders. A block of stone could not have been more still. There was not the

slightest stir of respiration. As I stared at it, the figure appeared to have changed its place, and was

now nearer the door; then, close to it, the door opened, and it passed out.

I was now relieved, and able to breathe and move. My first thought was that Carmilla had been

playing me a trick, and that I had forgotten to secure my door. I hastened to it, and found it locked

as usual on the inside. I was afraid to open it— I was horrified. I sprang into my bed and covered

my head up in the bed-clothes, and lay there more dead than alive till morning.

DESCENDING

It would be vain my attempting to tell you the horror with which, even now, I recall the occurrence

of that night. It was no such transitory terror as a dream leaves behind it. It seemed to deepen by

time, and communicated itself to the room and the very furniture that had encompassed the

apparition.

I could not bear next day to be alone for a moment. I should have told papa, but for two opposite

reasons. At one time I thought he would laugh at my story, and I could not bear its being treated as

a jest; and at another, I thought he might fancy that I had been attacked by the mysterious

complaint which had invaded our neighbourhood. I had myself no misgivings of the kind, and as he

had been rather an invalid for some time, I was afraid of alarming him.

I was comfortable enough with my good-natured companions, Madame Paradon, and the vivacious

Mademoiselle Lafontaine. They both perceived that I was out of spirits and nervous, and at length I

told them what lay so heavy at my heart.

Mademoiselle laughed, but I fancied that Madame Paradon looked anxious.

"By-the-by," said Mademoiselle, laughing, "the long lime-tree walk, behind Carmilla's bedroomwindow,

is haunted!"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Madame, who probably thought the theme rather inopportune, "and who

tells that story, my dear?"

"Martin says that he came up twice, when the old yard-gate was being repaired, before sunrise, and

twice saw the same female figure walking down the lime-tree avenue."

"So he well might, as long as there are cows to milk in the river fields," said Madame.

"I daresay; but Martin chooses to be frightened, and never did I see fool more frightened."

"You must not say a word about it to Carmilla, because she can see down that walk from her room

window," I interposed, "and she is, if possible, a greater coward than I."

Carmilla came down rather later than usual that day.

"I was so frightened last night," she said, so soon as were together, " and I am sure I should have

seen something dreadful if it had not been for that charm I bought from the poor little hunchback

whom I called such hard names. I had a dream of something black coming round my bed, and I

awoke in a perfect horror, and I really thought, for some seconds, I saw a dark figure near the

chimney-piece, but I felt under my pillow for my charm, and the moment my fingers touched it, the

figure disappeared, and I felt quite certain, only that I had it by me, that something frightful would

have made its appearance, and, perhaps, throttled me, as it did those poor people we heard of."

"Well, listen to me," I began, and recounted my adventure, at the recital of which she appeared

horrified.

"And had you the charm near you?" she asked, earnestly.

"No, I had dropped it into a china vase in the drawing-room, but I shall certainly take it with me tonight,

as you have so much faith in it."

At this distance of time I cannot tell you, or even understand, how I overcame my horror so

effectually as to lie alone in my room that night. I remember distinctly that I pinned the charm to

my pillow. I fell asleep almost immediately, and slept even more soundly than usual all night.

Next night I passed as well. My sleep was delightfully deep and dreamless. But I wakened with a

sense of lassitude and melancholy, which, however, did not exceed a degree that was almost

luxurious.

"Well, I told you so," said Carmilla, when I described my quiet sleep, "I had such delightful sleep

myself last night; I pinned the charm to the breast of my night-dress. It was too far away the night

before. I am quite sure it was all fancy, except the dreams. I used to think that evil spirits made

dreams, but our doctor told me it is no such thing. Only a fever passing by, or some other malady,

as they often do, he said, knocks at the door, and not being able to get in, passes on, with that

alarm."

"And what do you think the charm is?" said I.

"It has been fumigated or immersed in some drug, and is an antidote against the malaria," she

answered.

"Then it acts only on the body?"

"Certainly; you don't suppose that evil spirits are frightened by bits of ribbon, or the perfumes of a

druggist's shop? No, these complaints, wandering in the air, begin by trying the nerves, and so

infect the brain, but before they can seize upon you, the antidote repels them. That I am sure is

what the charm has done for us. It is nothing magical, it is simply natural."

I should have been happier if I could have quite agreed with Carmilla, but I did my best, and the

impression was a little losing its force.

For some nights I slept profoundly; but still every morning I felt the same lassitude, and a languor

weighed upon me all day. I felt myself a changed girl. A strange melancholy was stealing over me,

a melancholy that I would not have interrupted. Dim thoughts of death began to open, and an idea

that I was slowly sinking took gentle, and, somehow, not unwelcome, possession of me. If it was

sad, the tone of mind which this induced was also sweet. Whatever it might be, my soul acquiesced

in it.

I would not admit that I was ill, I would not consent to tell my papa, or to have the doctor sent for.

Carmilla became more devoted to me than ever, and her strange paroxysms of languid adoration

more frequent. She used to gloat on me with increasing ardour the more my strength and spirits

waned. This always shocked me like a momentary glare of insanity.

Without knowing it, I was now in a pretty advanced stage of the strangest illness under which

mortal ever suffered. There was an unaccountable fascination in its earlier symptoms that more

than reconciled me to the incapacitating effect of that stage of the malady. This fascination

increased for a time, until it reached a certain point, when gradually a sense of the horrible mingled

itself with it, deepening, as you shall hear, until it discoloured and perverted the whole state of my

life.

The first change I experienced was rather agreeable. It was very near the turning point from which

began the descent of Avernus.

Certain vague and strange sensations visited me in my sleep. The prevailing one was of that pleasant, peculiar cold thrill which we feel in bathing, when we move against the current of a river.

This was soon accompoanied by dreams that seemed interminable, and were so vague that I could

never recollect their scenery and persons, or any one connected portion of their action. But they left

an awful impression, and a sense of exhaustion, as if I had passed through a long period of great

mental exertion and danger. After all these dreams there remained on waking a remembrance of

having been in a place very nearly dark, and of having spoken to people whom I could not see; and

especially of one clear voice, of a female's, very deep, that spoke as if at a distance, slowly, and

producing always the same sensation of indescribable solemnity and fear. Sometimes there came a

sensation as if a hand was drawn softly along my cheek and neck. Sometimes it was as if warm lips

kissed me, and longer and more lovingly as they reached my throat, but there the caress fixed itself.

My heart beat faster, my breathing rose and fell rapidly and full drawn; a sobbing, that rose into a

sense of strangulation, supervened, and turned into a dreadful convulsion, in which my senses left

me and I became unconscious.

It was now three weeks since the commencement of this unaccountable state. My sufferings had,

during the last week, told upon my appearance. I had grown pale, my eyes were dilated and

darkened underneath, and the languor which I had long felt began to display itself in my

countenance.

My father asked me often whether I was ill; but, with an obstinacy which now seems to me

unaccountable, I persisted in assuring him that I was quite well.

In a sense this was true. I had no pain, I could complain of no bodily derangement. My complaint

seemed to be one of the imagination, or the nerves, and, horrible as my sufferings were, I kept

them, with a morbid reserve, very nearly to myself.

It could not be that terrible complaint which the peasants called the oupire, for I had now been

suffering for three weeks, and they were seldom ill for much more than three days, when death put

an end to their miseries.

Carmilla complained of dreams and feverish sensations, but by no means of so alarming a kind as

mine. I say that mine were extremely alarming. Had I been capable of comprehending my

condition, I would have invoked aid and advice on my knees. The narcotic of an unsuspected

influence was acting upon me, and my perceptions were benumbed.

I am going to tell you now of a dream that led immediately to an odd discovery.

One night, instead of the voice I was accustomed to hear in the dark, I heard one, sweet and tender,

and at the same time terrible, which said, "Your mother warns you to beware of the assassin." At

the same time a light unexpectedly sprang up, and I saw Carmilla, standing, near the foot of my

bed, in her white night-dress, bathed, from her chin to her feet, in one great stain of blood.

I wakened with a shriek, possessed with the one idea that Carmilla was being murdered. I

remember springing from my bed, and my next recollection is that of standing on the lobby, crying

for help.

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