The Project Gutenberg eBook of Carmilla, by Joseph Sheridan

Le Fanu
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Title: Carmilla
Author: Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
Release Date: November 7, 2003 [eBook #10007]
[Most recently updated: August 6, 2021]
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
Produced by: Suzanne Shell, Sjaani and PG Distributed Proofreaders

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CARMILLA ***

Carmilla
by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
Copyright 1872

Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER I. An Early Fright
CHAPTER II. A Guest
CHAPTER III. We Compare Notes
CHAPTER IV. Her Habits—A Saunter
CHAPTER V. A Wonderful Likeness
CHAPTER VI. A Very Strange Agony
CHAPTER VII. Descending
CHAPTER VIII. Search
CHAPTER IX. The Doctor
CHAPTER X. Bereaved
CHAPTER XI. The Story
CHAPTER XII. A Petition
CHAPTER XIII. The Woodman
CHAPTER XIV. The Meeting
CHAPTER XV. Ordeal and Execution
CHAPTER XVI. Conclusion
 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 this volume, simply to interest the “laity,” I shall forestall 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 reopen 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 conscientious particularity.
 I.
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 marvelously 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 moldering tombs of
the proud family of Karnstein, now extinct, who once owned the equally desolate chateau
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 now 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
“neighbors” 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-by, 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 cracks suddenly, or
the flicker of an expiring candle makes the shadow of a bedpost 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,
nursery maid, 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;
someone 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 smallpox, and his
chestnut 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 wasnot 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 remembered, 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 remembered so well the thoughtful sweet face of that white-haired old man, in his
black cassock, 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.
 II.
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 eyewitness.
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 niece 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 neighborhood 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 splendor 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 Spielsdorf’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
marvelous 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 on 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 idyllic 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 splendor, as if unseen hands had lighted up the rooms to receive
fairy guests.”
There are indolent styles 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 tonight,” 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 traveling 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; me rather 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
on 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.
“Who 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
postilions 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.
 III.
We Compare Notes
We followed the cortege 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 colored turban on her head,
and who was gazing all the time from the carriage window, nodding and grinning
derisively towards the ladies, with gleaming eyes and large white eyeballs, 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 traveling,” 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 you all about it tomorrow, 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 us all the more inquisitive as to what had passed between 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 ofvital
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 traveling.’ 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 favorably
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 somber 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 color
enough in the other decorations of the room, to more than redeem the gloom of the old
tapestry.
There were candles at the bedside. 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 bedside 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 someone 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 saw then.”
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 languor 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; tomorrow, 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.
 IV.
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
color 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 hers 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 honor? 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 quarreled 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 honor, 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 ardor of a lover; it embarrassed me; it was
hateful and yet over-powering; and with gloating eyes she drew me to her, and her hot
lips traveled 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 had 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 someone 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 storybooks 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 commonplace, 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 languor 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 languor in which her
mind did not sympathize. 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 today.”
“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 tonight 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 lips, 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 somber 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 courtyard, 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 courtyard, 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 cattle 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 neighbors.”
“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.
 V.
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
corresponding 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 color, 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 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
colorless 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 us, the
physician who was with papa today.”
“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.
 VI.
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 tomorrow, 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
neighborhood, 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 chateau, 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
bedroom 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 fortifed 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 hearthrug as it passed over it; and it continued to-ing
and fro-ing 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 bedclothes, and lay there more dead
than alive till morning.
 VII.
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 neighborhood. I had myself
no misgiving 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 Perrodon, 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 Perrodon looked anxious.
“By-the-by,” said Mademoiselle, laughing, “the long lime tree walk, behind Carmilla’s
bedroom window, 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 chimneypiece, 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 nightdress. 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 ardor 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
discolored 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 accompanied 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 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 nightdress, 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.
Madame and Mademoiselle came scurrying out of their rooms in alarm; a lamp burned
always on the lobby, and seeing me, they soon learned the cause of my terror.
I insisted on our knocking at Carmilla’s door. Our knocking was unanswered.
It soon became a pounding and an uproar. We shrieked her name, but all was vain.
We all grew frightened, for the door was locked. We hurried back, in panic, to my
room. There we rang the bell long and furiously. If my father’s room had been at that side
of the house, we would have called him up at once to our aid. But, alas! he was quite out
of hearing, and to reach him involved an excursion for which we none of us had courage.
Servants, however, soon came running up the stairs; I had got on my dressing gown
and slippers meanwhile, and my companions were already similarly furnished.
Recognizing the voices of the servants on the lobby, we sallied out together; and having
renewed, as fruitlessly, our summons at Carmilla’s door, I ordered the men to force the
lock. They did so, and we stood, holding our lights aloft, in the doorway, and so stared
into the room.
We called her by name; but there was still no reply. We looked round the room.
Everything was undisturbed. It was exactly in the state in which I had left it on bidding her
good night. But Carmilla was gone.
 VIII.
Search
At sight of the room, perfectly undisturbed except for our violent entrance, we began
to cool a little, and soon recovered our senses sufficiently to dismiss the men. It had
struck Mademoiselle that possibly Carmilla had been wakened by the uproar at her door,
and in her first panic had jumped from her bed, and hid herself in a press, or behind a
curtain, from which she could not, of course, emerge until the majordomo and his
myrmidons had withdrawn. We now recommenced our search, and began to call her
name again.
It was all to no purpose. Our perplexity and agitation increased. We examined the
windows, but they were secured. I implored of Carmilla, if she had concealed herself, to
play this cruel trick no longer—to come out and to end our anxieties. It was all useless. I
was by this time convinced that she was not in the room, nor in the dressing room, the
door of which was still locked on this side. She could not have passed it. I was utterly
puzzled. Had Carmilla discovered one of those secret passages which the old
housekeeper said were known to exist in the schloss, although the tradition of their exact
situation had been lost? A little time would, no doubt, explain all—utterly perplexed as,
for the present, we were.
It was past four o’clock, and I preferred passing the remaining hours of darkness in
Madame’s room. Daylight brought no solution of the difficulty.
The whole household, with my father at its head, was in a state of agitation next
morning. Every part of the chateau was searched. The grounds were explored. No trace
of the missing lady could be discovered. The stream was about to be dragged; my father
was in distraction; what a tale to have to tell the poor girl’s mother on her return. I, too,
was almost beside myself, though my grief was quite of a different kind.
The morning was passed in alarm and excitement. It was now one o’clock, and still no
tidings. I ran up to Carmilla’s room, and found her standing at her dressing table. I was
astounded. I could not believe my eyes. She beckoned me to her with her pretty finger, in
silence. Her face expressed extreme fear.
I ran to her in an ecstasy of joy; I kissed and embraced her again and again. I ran to
the bell and rang it vehemently, to bring others to the spot who might at once relieve my
father’s anxiety.
“Dear Carmilla, what has become of you all this time? We have been in agonies of
anxiety about you,” I exclaimed. “Where have you been? How did you come back?”
“Last night has been a night of wonders,” she said.
“For mercy’s sake, explain all you can.”
“It was past two last night,” she said, “when I went to sleep as usual in my bed, with
my doors locked, that of the dressing room, and that opening upon the gallery. My sleep
was uninterrupted, and, so far as I know, dreamless; but I woke just now on the sofa in
the dressing room there, and I found the door between the rooms open, and the other
door forced. How could all this have happened without my being wakened? It must have
been accompanied with a great deal of noise, and I am particularly easily wakened; and
how could I have been carried out of my bed without my sleep having been interrupted, I
whom the slightest stir startles?”
By this time, Madame, Mademoiselle, my father, and a number of the servants were in
the room. Carmilla was, of course, overwhelmed with inquiries, congratulations, and
welcomes. She had but one story to tell, and seemed the least able of all the party to
suggest any way of accounting for what had happened.
My father took a turn up and down the room, thinking. I saw Carmilla’s eye follow him
for a moment with a sly, dark glance.
When my father had sent the servants away, Mademoiselle having gone in search of a
little bottle of valerian and salvolatile, and there being no one now in the room with
Carmilla, except my father, Madame, and myself, he came to her thoughtfully, took her
hand very kindly, led her to the sofa, and sat down beside her.
“Will you forgive me, my dear, if I risk a conjecture, and ask a question?”
“Who can have a better right?” she said. “Ask what you please, and I will tell you
everything. But my story is simply one of bewilderment and darkness. I know absolutely
nothing. Put any question you please, but you know, of course, the limitations mamma has
placed me under.”
 “Perfectly, my dear child. I need not approach the topics on which she desires our
silence. Now, the marvel of last night consists in your having been removed from your
bed and your room, without being wakened, and this removal having occurred apparently
while the windows were still secured, and the two doors locked upon the inside. I will tell
you my theory and ask you a question.”
Carmilla was leaning on her hand dejectedly; Madame and I were listening
breathlessly.
“Now, my question is this. Have you ever been suspected of walking in your sleep?”
“Never, since I was very young indeed.”
“But you did walk in your sleep when you were young?”
“Yes; I know I did. I have been told so often by my old nurse.”
My father smiled and nodded.
“Well, what has happened is this. You got up in your sleep, unlocked the door, not
leaving the key, as usual, in the lock, but taking it out and locking it on the outside; you
again took the key out, and carried it away with you to some one of the five-and-twenty
rooms on this floor, or perhaps upstairs or downstairs. There are so many rooms and
closets, so much heavy furniture, and such accumulations of lumber, that it would require
a week to search this old house thoroughly. Do you see, now, what I mean?”
“I do, but not all,” she answered.
“And how, papa, do you account for her finding herself on the sofa in the dressing
room, which we had searched so carefully?”
“She came there after you had searched it, still in her sleep, and at last awoke
spontaneously, and was as much surprised to find herself where she was as any one else.
I wish all mysteries were as easily and innocently explained as yours, Carmilla,” he said,
laughing. “And so we may congratulate ourselves on the certainty that the most natural
explanation of the occurrence is one that involves no drugging, no tampering with locks,
no burglars, or poisoners, or witches—nothing that need alarm Carmilla, or anyone else,
for our safety.”
Carmilla was looking charmingly. Nothing could be more beautiful than her tints. Her
beauty was, I think, enhanced by that graceful languor that was peculiar to her. I think my
father was silently contrasting her looks with mine, for he said:
“I wish my poor Laura was looking more like herself”; and he sighed.
So our alarms were happily ended, and Carmilla restored to her friends.
 IX.
The Doctor
As Carmilla would not hear of an attendant sleeping in her room, my father arranged
that a servant should sleep outside her door, so that she would not attempt to make
another such excursion without being arrested at her own door.
That night passed quietly; and next morning early, the doctor, whom my father had sent
for without telling me a word about it, arrived to see me.
Madame accompanied me to the library; and there the grave little doctor, with white
hair and spectacles, whom I mentioned before, was waiting to receive me.
I told him my story, and as I proceeded he grew graver and graver.
We were standing, he and I, in the recess of one of the windows, facing one another.
When my statement was over, he leaned with his shoulders against the wall, and with his
eyes fixed on me earnestly, with an interest in which was a dash of horror.
After a minute’s reflection, he asked Madame if he could see my father.
He was sent for accordingly, and as he entered, smiling, he said:
“I dare say, doctor, you are going to tell me that I am an old fool for having brought
you here; I hope I am.”
But his smile faded into shadow as the doctor, with a very grave face, beckoned him to
him.
He and the doctor talked for some time in the same recess where I had just conferred
with the physician. It seemed an earnest and argumentative conversation. The room is
very large, and I and Madame stood together, burning with curiosity, at the farther end.
Not a word could we hear, however, for they spoke in a very low tone, and the deep
recess of the window quite concealed the doctor from view, and very nearly my father,
whose foot, arm, and shoulder only could we see; and the voices were, I suppose, all the
less audible for the sort of closet which the thick wall and window formed.
After a time my father’s face looked into the room; it was pale, thoughtful, and, I
fancied, agitated.
“Laura, dear, come here for a moment. Madame, we shan’t trouble you, the doctor
says, at present.”
Accordingly I approached, for the first time a little alarmed; for, although I felt very
weak, I did not feel ill; and strength, one always fancies, is a thing that may be picked up
when we please.
My father held out his hand to me, as I drew near, but he was looking at the doctor,
and he said:
“It certainly is very odd; I don’t understand it quite. Laura, come here, dear; now
attend to Doctor Spielsberg, and recollect yourself.”
“You mentioned a sensation like that of two needles piercing the skin, somewhere
about your neck, on the night when you experienced your first horrible dream. Is there
still any soreness?”
“None at all,” I answered.
“Can you indicate with your finger about the point at which you think this occurred?”
“Very little below my throat—here,” I answered.
I wore a morning dress, which covered the place I pointed to.
“Now you can satisfy yourself,” said the doctor. “You won’t mind your papa’s
lowering your dress a very little. It is necessary, to detect a symptom of the complaint
under which you have been suffering.”
I acquiesced. It was only an inch or two below the edge of my collar.
“God bless me!—so it is,” exclaimed my father, growing pale.
“You see it now with your own eyes,” said the doctor, with a gloomy triumph.
“What is it?” I exclaimed, beginning to be frightened.
“Nothing, my dear young lady, but a small blue spot, about the size of the tip of your
little finger; and now,” he continued, turning to papa, “the question is what is best to be
done?”
Is there any danger?”I urged, in great trepidation.
“I trust not, my dear,” answered the doctor. “I don’t see why you should not recover. I
don’t see why you should not begin immediately to get better. That is the point at which
the sense of strangulation begins?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“And—recollect as well as you can—the same point was a kind of center of that thrill
which you described just now, like the current of a cold stream running against you?”
“It may have been; I think it was.”
“Ay, you see?” he added, turning to my father. “Shall I say a word to Madame?”
“Certainly,” said my father.
He called Madame to him, and said:
“I find my young friend here far from well. It won’t be of any great consequence, I
hope; but it will be necessary that some steps be taken, which I will explain by-and-by;
but in the meantime, Madame, you will be so good as not to let Miss Laura be alone for
one moment. That is the only direction I need give for the present. It is indispensable.”
“We may rely upon your kindness, Madame, I know,” added my father.
Madame satisfied him eagerly.
“And you, dear Laura, I know you will observe the doctor’s direction.”
“I shall have to ask your opinion upon another patient, whose symptoms slightly
resemble those of my daughter, that have just been detailed to you—very much milder in
degree, but I believe quite of the same sort. She is a young lady—our guest; but as you
say you will be passing this way again this evening, you can’t do better than take your
supper here, and you can then see her. She does not come down till the afternoon.”
“I thank you,” said the doctor. “I shall be with you, then, at about seven this evening.”
And then they repeated their directions to me and to Madame, and with this parting
charge my father left us, and walked out with the doctor; and I saw them pacing together
up and down between the road and the moat, on the grassy platform in front of the castle,
evidently absorbed in earnest conversation.
The doctor did not return. I saw him mount his horse there, take his leave, and ride
away eastward through the forest.
Nearly at the same time I saw the man arrive from Dranfield with the letters, and
dismount and hand the bag to my father.
In the meantime, Madame and I were both busy, lost in conjecture as to the reasons of
the singular and earnest direction which the doctor and my father had concurred in
imposing. Madame, as she afterwards told me, was afraid the doctor apprehended a
sudden seizure, and that, without prompt assistance, I might either lose my life in a fit, or
at least be seriously hurt.
The interpretation did not strike me; and I fancied, perhaps luckily for my nerves, that
the arrangement was prescribed simply to secure a companion, who would prevent my
taking too much exercise, or eating unripe fruit, or doing any of the fifty foolish things to
which young people are supposed to be prone.
About half an hour after my father came in—he had a letter in his hand—and said:
“This letter had been delayed; it is from General Spielsdorf. He might have been here
yesterday, he may not come till tomorrow or he may be here today.”
He put the open letter into my hand; but he did not look pleased, as he used when a
guest, especially one so much loved as the General, was coming.
On the contrary, he looked as if he wished him at the bottom of the Red Sea. There
was plainly something on his mind which he did not choose to divulge.
“Papa, darling, will you tell me this?” said I, suddenly laying my hand on his arm, and
looking, I am sure, imploringly in his face.
“Perhaps,” he answered, smoothing my hair caressingly over my eyes.
“Does the doctor think me very ill?”
“No, dear; he thinks, if right steps are taken, you will be quite well again, at least, on
the high road to a complete recovery, in a day or two,” he answered, a little dryly. “I wish
our good friend, the General, had chosen any other time; that is, I wish you had been
perfectly well to receive him.”
“But do tell me, papa,” I insisted, “what does he think is the matter with me?”
“Nothing; you must not plague me with questions,” he answered, with more irritation
than I ever remember him to have displayed before; and seeing that I looked wounded, I
suppose, he kissed me, and added, “You shall know all about it in a day or two; that is,
all that I know. In the meantime you are not to trouble your head about it.”
He turned and left the room, but came back before I had done wondering and puzzling
over the oddity of all this; it was merely to say that he was going to Karnstein, and had
ordered the carriage to be ready at twelve, and that I and Madame should accompany
him; he was going to see the priest who lived near those picturesque grounds, upon
business, and as Carmilla had never seen them, she could follow, when she came down,
with Mademoiselle, who would bring materials for what you call a picnic, which might be
laid for us in the ruined castle.
At twelve o’clock, accordingly, I was ready, and not long after, my father, Madame
and I set out upon our projected drive.
Passing the drawbridge we turn to the right, and follow the road over the steep Gothic
bridge, westward, to reach the deserted village and ruined castle of Karnstein.
No sylvan drive can be fancied prettier. The ground breaks into gentle hills and
hollows, all clothed with beautiful wood, totally destitute of the comparative formality
which artificial planting and early culture and pruning impart.
The irregularities of the ground often lead the road out of its course, and cause it to
wind beautifully round the sides of broken hollows and the steeper sides of the hills,
among varieties of ground almost inexhaustible.
Turning one of these points, we suddenly encountered our old friend, the General,
riding towards us, attended by a mounted servant. His portmanteaus were following in a
hired wagon, such as we term a cart.
The General dismounted as we pulled up, and, after the usual greetings, was easily
persuaded to accept the vacant seat in the carriage and send his horse on with his servant
to the schloss.
 X.
Bereaved
It was about ten months since we had last seen him: but that time had sufficed to make
an alteration of years in his appearance. He had grown thinner; something of gloom and
anxiety had taken the place of that cordial serenity which used to characterize his features.
His dark blue eyes, always penetrating, now gleamed with a sterner light from under his
shaggy grey eyebrows. It was not such a change as grief alone usually induces, and
angrier passions seemed to have had their share in bringing it about.
We had not long resumed our drive, when the General began to talk, with his usual
soldierly directness, of the bereavement, as he termed it, which he had sustained in the
death of his beloved niece and ward; and he then broke out in a tone of intense bitterness
and fury, inveighing against the “hellish arts” to which she had fallen a victim, and
expressing, with more exasperation than piety, his wonder that Heaven should tolerate so
monstrous an indulgence of the lusts and malignity of hell.
My father, who saw at once that something very extraordinary had befallen, asked him,
if not too painful to him, to detail the circumstances which he thought justified the strong
terms in which he expressed himself.
“I should tell you all with pleasure,” said the General, “but you would not believe me.”
“Why should I not?” he asked.
“Because,” he answered testily, “you believe in nothing but what consists with your
own prejudices and illusions. I remember when I was like you, but I have learned better.”
“Try me,” said my father; “I am not such a dogmatist as you suppose.
Besides which, I very well know that you generally require proof for what you believe,
and am, therefore, very strongly predisposed to respect your conclusions.”
“You are right in supposing that I have not been led lightly into a belief in the marvelous
—for what I have experienced is marvelous—and I have been forced by extraordinary
evidence to credit that which ran counter, diametrically, to all my theories. I have been
made the dupe of a preternatural conspiracy.”
Notwithstanding his professions of confidence in the General’s penetration, I saw my
father, at this point, glance at the General, with, as I thought, a marked suspicion of his
sanity.
The General did not see it, luckily. He was looking gloomily and curiously into the
glades and vistas of the woods that were opening before us.
“You are going to the Ruins of Karnstein?” he said. “Yes, it is a lucky coincidence; do
you know I was going to ask you to bring me there to inspect them. I have a special
object in exploring. There is a ruined chapel, ain’t there, with a great many tombs of that
extinct family?”
“So there are—highly interesting,” said my father. “I hope you are thinking of claiming
the title and estates?”
My father said this gaily, but the General did not recollect the laugh, or even the smile,
which courtesy exacts for a friend’s joke; on the contrary, he looked grave and even
fierce, ruminating on a matter that stirred his anger and horror.
“Something very different,” he said, gruffly. “I mean to unearth some of those fine
people. I hope, by God’s blessing, to accomplish a pious sacrilege here, which will relieve
our earth of certain monsters, and enable honest people to sleep in their beds without
being assailed by murderers. I have strange things to tell you, my dear friend, such as I
myself would have scouted as incredible a few months since.”
My father looked at him again, but this time not with a glance of suspicion—with an
eye, rather, of keen intelligence and alarm.
“The house of Karnstein,” he said, “has been long extinct: a hundred years at least. My
dear wife was maternally descended from the Karnsteins. But the name and title have
long ceased to exist. The castle is a ruin; the very village is deserted; it is fifty years since
the smoke of a chimney was seen there; not a roof left.”
“Quite true. I have heard a great deal about that since I last saw you; a great deal that
will astonish you. But I had better relate everything in the order in which it occurred,” said
the General. “You saw my dear ward—my child, I may call her. No creature could have
been more beautiful, and only three months ago none more blooming.”
“Yes, poor thing! when I saw her last she certainly was quite lovely,” said my father. “I
was grieved and shocked more than I can tell you, my dear friend; I knew what a blow it
was to you.”
He took the General’s hand, and they exchanged a kind pressure. Tears gathered in
the old soldier’s eyes. He did not seek to conceal them. He said:
“We have been very old friends; I knew you would feel for me, childless as I am. She
had become an object of very near interest to me, and repaid my care by an affection that
cheered my home and made my life happy. That is all gone. The years that remain to me
on earth may not be very long; but by God’s mercy I hope to accomplish a service to
mankind before I die, and to subserve the vengeance of Heaven upon the fiends who
have murdered my poor child in the spring of her hopes and beauty!”
“You said, just now, that you intended relating everything as it occurred,” said my
father. “Pray do; I assure you that it is not mere curiosity that prompts me.”
By this time we had reached the point at which the Drunstall road, by which the
General had come, diverges from the road which we were traveling to Karnstein.
“How far is it to the ruins?” inquired the General, looking anxiously forward.
“About half a league,” answered my father. “Pray let us hear the story you were so
good as to promise.”
 XI.
The Story
With all my heart,” said the General, with an effort; and after a short pause in which to
arrange his subject, he commenced one of the strangest narratives I ever heard.
“My dear child was looking forward with great pleasure to the visit you had been so
good as to arrange for her to your charming daughter.” Here he made me a gallant but
melancholy bow. “In the meantime we had an invitation to my old friend the Count
Carlsfeld, whose schloss is about six leagues to the other side of Karnstein. It was to
attend the series of fetes which, you remember, were given by him in honor of his
illustrious visitor, the Grand Duke Charles.”
“Yes; and very splendid, I believe, they were,” said my father.
“Princely! But then his hospitalities are quite regal. He has Aladdin’s lamp. The night
from which my sorrow dates was devoted to a magnificent masquerade. The grounds
were thrown open, the trees hung with colored lamps. There was such a display of
fireworks as Paris itself had never witnessed. And such music—music, you know, is my
weakness—such ravishing music! The finest instrumental band, perhaps, in the world, and
the finest singers who could be collected from all the great operas in Europe. As you
wandered through these fantastically illuminated grounds, the moon-lighted chateau
throwing a rosy light from its long rows of windows, you would suddenly hear these
ravishing voices stealing from the silence of some grove, or rising from boats upon the
lake. I felt myself, as I looked and listened, carried back into the romance and poetry of
my early youth.
“When the fireworks were ended, and the ball beginning, we returned to the noble
suite of rooms that were thrown open to the dancers. A masked ball, you know, is a
beautiful sight; but so brilliant a spectacle of the kind I never saw before.
“It was a very aristocratic assembly. I was myself almost the only ‘nobody’ present.
“My dear child was looking quite beautiful. She wore no mask. Her excitement and
delight added an unspeakable charm to her features, always lovely. I remarked a young
lady, dressed magnificently, but wearing a mask, who appeared to me to be observing my
ward with extraordinary interest. I had seen her, earlier in the evening, in the great hall,
and again, for a few minutes, walking near us, on the terrace under the castle windows,
similarly employed. A lady, also masked, richly and gravely dressed, and with a stately
air, like a person of rank, accompanied her as a chaperon.
Had the young lady not worn a mask, I could, of course, have been much more certain
upon the question whether she was really watching my poor darling.
I am now well assured that she was.
“We were now in one of the salons. My poor dear child had been dancing, and was
resting a little in one of the chairs near the door; I was standing near. The two ladies I
have mentioned had approached and the younger took the chair next my ward; while her
companion stood beside me, and for a little time addressed herself, in a low tone, to her
charge.
“Availing herself of the privilege of her mask, she turned to me, and in the tone of an
old friend, and calling me by my name, opened a conversation with me, which piqued my
curiosity a good deal. She referred to many scenes where she had met me—at Court,
and at distinguished houses. She alluded to little incidents which I had long ceased to think
of, but which, I found, had only lain in abeyance in my memory, for they instantly started
into life at her touch.
“I became more and more curious to ascertain who she was, every moment. She
parried my attempts to discover very adroitly and pleasantly. The knowledge she showed
of many passages in my life seemed to me all but unaccountable; and she appeared to
take a not unnatural pleasure in foiling my curiosity, and in seeing me flounder in my eager
perplexity, from one conjecture to another.
“In the meantime the young lady, whom her mother called by the odd name of
Millarca, when she once or twice addressed her, had, with the same ease and grace, got
into conversation with my ward.
“She introduced herself by saying that her mother was a very old acquaintance of mine.
She spoke of the agreeable audacity which a mask rendered practicable; she talked like a
friend; she admired her dress, and insinuated very prettily her admiration of her beauty.
She amused her with laughing criticisms upon the people who crowded the ballroom, and
laughed at my poor child’s fun. She was very witty and lively when she pleased, and after
a time they had grown very good friends, and the young stranger lowered her mask,
displaying a remarkably beautiful face. I had never seen it before, neither had my dear
child. But though it was new to us, the features were so engaging, as well as lovely, that it
was impossible not to feel the attraction powerfully. My poor girl did so. I never saw
anyone more taken with another at first sight, unless, indeed, it was the stranger herself,
who seemed quite to have lost her heart to her.
“In the meantime, availing myself of the license of a masquerade, I put not a few
questions to the elder lady.
“‘You have puzzled me utterly,’ I said, laughing. ‘Is that not enough?
Won’t you, now, consent to stand on equal terms, and do me the kindness to remove
your mask?’
“‘Can any request be more unreasonable?’ she replied. ‘Ask a lady to yield an
advantage! Beside, how do you know you should recognize me? Years make changes.’
“‘As you see,’ I said, with a bow, and, I suppose, a rather melancholy little laugh.
“‘As philosophers tell us,’ she said; ‘and how do you know that a sight of my face
would help you?’
“‘I should take chance for that,’ I answered. ‘It is vain trying to make yourself out an
old woman; your figure betrays you.’
“‘Years, nevertheless, have passed since I saw you, rather since you saw me, for that
is what I am considering. Millarca, there, is my daughter; I cannot then be young, even in
the opinion of people whom time has taught to be indulgent, and I may not like to be
compared with what you remember me.
You have no mask to remove. You can offer me nothing in exchange.’
“‘My petition is to your pity, to remove it.’
“‘And mine to yours, to let it stay where it is,’ she replied.
“‘Well, then, at least you will tell me whether you are French or German; you speak
both languages so perfectly.’
“‘I don’t think I shall tell you that, General; you intend a surprise, and are meditating
the particular point of attack.’
“‘At all events, you won’t deny this,’ I said, ‘that being honored by your permission to
converse, I ought to know how to address you. Shall I say Madame la Comtesse?’
“She laughed, and she would, no doubt, have met me with another evasion—if, indeed,
I can treat any occurrence in an interview every circumstance of which was prearranged,
as I now believe, with the profoundest cunning, as liable to be modified by accident.
“‘As to that,’ she began; but she was interrupted, almost as she opened her lips, by a
gentleman, dressed in black, who looked particularly elegant and distinguished, with this
drawback, that his face was the most deadly pale I ever saw, except in death. He was in
no masquerade—in the plain evening dress of a gentleman; and he said, without a smile,
but with a courtly and unusually low bow:—
“‘Will Madame la Comtesse permit me to say a very few words which may interest
her?’
“The lady turned quickly to him, and touched her lip in token of silence; she then said
to me, ‘Keep my place for me, General; I shall return when I have said a few words.’
“And with this injunction, playfully given, she walked a little aside with the gentleman in
black, and talked for some minutes, apparently very earnestly. They then walked away
slowly together in the crowd, and I lost them for some minutes.
“I spent the interval in cudgeling my brains for a conjecture as to the identity of the lady
who seemed to remember me so kindly, and I was thinking of turning about and joining in
the conversation between my pretty ward and the Countess’s daughter, and trying
whether, by the time she returned, I might not have a surprise in store for her, by having
her name, title, chateau, and estates at my fingers’ ends. But at this moment she returned,
accompanied by the pale man in black, who said:
“‘I shall return and inform Madame la Comtesse when her carriage is at the door.’
“He withdrew with a bow.”
 XII.
A Petition
“‘Then we are to lose Madame la Comtesse, but I hope only for a few hours,’ I said,
with a low bow.
“‘It may be that only, or it may be a few weeks. It was very unlucky his speaking to
me just now as he did. Do you now know me?’
“I assured her I did not.
“‘You shall know me,’ she said, ‘but not at present. We are older and better friends
than, perhaps, you suspect. I cannot yet declare myself. I shall in three weeks pass your
beautiful schloss, about which I have been making enquiries. I shall then look in upon you
for an hour or two, and renew a friendship which I never think of without a thousand
pleasant recollections. This moment a piece of news has reached me like a thunderbolt. I
must set out now, and travel by a devious route, nearly a hundred miles, with all the
dispatch I can possibly make. My perplexities multiply. I am only deterred by the
compulsory reserve I practice as to my name from making a very singular request of you.
My poor child has not quite recovered her strength. Her horse fell with her, at a hunt
which she had ridden out to witness, her nerves have not yet recovered the shock, and
our physician says that she must on no account exert herself for some time to come. We
came here, in consequence, by very easy stages—hardly six leagues a day. I must now
travel day and night, on a mission of life and death—a mission the critical and momentous
nature of which I shall be able to explain to you when we meet, as I hope we shall, in a
few weeks, without the necessity of any concealment.’
“She went on to make her petition, and it was in the tone of a person from whom such
a request amounted to conferring, rather than seeking a favor.
This was only in manner, and, as it seemed, quite unconsciously. Than the terms in
which it was expressed, nothing could be more deprecatory. It was simply that I would
consent to take charge of her daughter during her absence.
“This was, all things considered, a strange, not to say, an audacious request. She in
some sort disarmed me, by stating and admitting everything that could be urged against it,
and throwing herself entirely upon my chivalry. At the same moment, by a fatality that
seems to have predetermined all that happened, my poor child came to my side, and, in
an undertone, besought me to invite her new friend, Millarca, to pay us a visit. She had
just been sounding her, and thought, if her mamma would allow her, she would like it
extremely.
“At another time I should have told her to wait a little, until, at least, we knew who they
were. But I had not a moment to think in. The two ladies assailed me together, and I must
confess the refined and beautiful face of the young lady, about which there was something
extremely engaging, as well as the elegance and fire of high birth, determined me; and,
quite overpowered, I submitted, and undertook, too easily, the care of the young lady,
whom her mother called Millarca.
“The Countess beckoned to her daughter, who listened with grave attention while she
told her, in general terms, how suddenly and peremptorily she had been summoned, and
also of the arrangement she had made for her under my care, adding that I was one of her
earliest and most valued friends.
“I made, of course, such speeches as the case seemed to call for, and found myself, on
reflection, in a position which I did not half like.
“The gentleman in black returned, and very ceremoniously conducted the lady from the
room.
“The demeanor of this gentleman was such as to impress me with the conviction that
the Countess was a lady of very much more importance than her modest title alone might
have led me to assume.
“Her last charge to me was that no attempt was to be made to learn more about her
than I might have already guessed, until her return. Our distinguished host, whose guest
she was, knew her reasons.
“‘But here,’ she said, ‘neither I nor my daughter could safely remain for more than a
day. I removed my mask imprudently for a moment, about an hour ago, and, too late, I
fancied you saw me. So I resolved to seek an opportunity of talking a little to you. Had I
found that you had seen me, I would have thrown myself on your high sense of honor to
keep my secret some weeks. As it is, I am satisfied that you did not see me; but if you
now suspect, or, on reflection, should suspect, who I am, I commit myself, in like manner,
entirely to your honor. My daughter will observe the same secrecy, and I well know that
you will, from time to time, remind her, lest she should thoughtlessly disclose it.’
“She whispered a few words to her daughter, kissed her hurriedly twice, and went
away, accompanied by the pale gentleman in black, and disappeared in the crowd.
“‘In the next room,’ said Millarca, ‘there is a window that looks upon the hall door. I
should like to see the last of mamma, and to kiss my hand to her.’
“We assented, of course, and accompanied her to the window. We looked out, and
saw a handsome old-fashioned carriage, with a troop of couriers and footmen. We saw
the slim figure of the pale gentleman in black, as he held a thick velvet cloak, and placed it
about her shoulders and threw the hood over her head. She nodded to him, and just
touched his hand with hers. He bowed low repeatedly as the door closed, and the
carriage began to move.
“‘She is gone,’ said Millarca, with a sigh.
“‘She is gone,’ I repeated to myself, for the first time—in the hurried moments that had
elapsed since my consent—reflecting upon the folly of my act.
“‘She did not look up,’ said the young lady, plaintively.
“‘The Countess had taken off her mask, perhaps, and did not care to show her face,’ I
said; ‘and she could not know that you were in the window.’
“She sighed, and looked in my face. She was so beautiful that I relented. I was sorry I
had for a moment repented of my hospitality, and I determined to make her amends for
the unavowed churlishness of my reception.
“The young lady, replacing her mask, joined my ward in persuading me to return to the
grounds, where the concert was soon to be renewed. We did so, and walked up and
down the terrace that lies under the castle windows.
Millarca became very intimate with us, and amused us with lively descriptions and
stories of most of the great people whom we saw upon the terrace. I liked her more and
more every minute. Her gossip without being ill-natured, was extremely diverting to me,
who had been so long out of the great world. I thought what life she would give to our
sometimes lonely evenings at home.
“This ball was not over until the morning sun had almost reached the horizon. It pleased
the Grand Duke to dance till then, so loyal people could not go away, or think of bed.
“We had just got through a crowded saloon, when my ward asked me what had
become of Millarca. I thought she had been by her side, and she fancied she was by
mine. The fact was, we had lost her.
“All my efforts to find her were vain. I feared that she had mistaken, in the confusion of
a momentary separation from us, other people for her new friends, and had, possibly,
pursued and lost them in the extensive grounds which were thrown open to us.
“Now, in its full force, I recognized a new folly in my having undertaken the charge of a
young lady without so much as knowing her name; and fettered as I was by promises, of
the reasons for imposing which I knew nothing, I could not even point my inquiries by
saying that the missing young lady was the daughter of the Countess who had taken her
departure a few hours before.
“Morning broke. It was clear daylight before I gave up my search. It was not till near
two o’clock next day that we heard anything of my missing charge.
“At about that time a servant knocked at my niece’s door, to say that he had been
earnestly requested by a young lady, who appeared to be in great distress, to make out
where she could find the General Baron Spielsdorf and the young lady his daughter, in
whose charge she had been left by her mother.
“There could be no doubt, notwithstanding the slight inaccuracy, that our young friend
had turned up; and so she had. Would to heaven we had lost her!
“She told my poor child a story to account for her having failed to recover us for so
long. Very late, she said, she had got to the housekeeper’s bedroom in despair of finding
us, and had then fallen into a deep sleep which, long as it was, had hardly sufficed to
recruit her strength after the fatigues of the ball.
“That day Millarca came home with us. I was only too happy, after all, to have secured
so charming a companion for my dear girl.”
 XIII.
The Woodman
“There soon, however, appeared some drawbacks. In the first place, Millarca
complained of extreme languor—the weakness that remained after her late illness—and
she never emerged from her room till the afternoon was pretty far advanced. In the next
place, it was accidentally discovered, although she always locked her door on the inside,
and never disturbed the key from its place till she admitted the maid to assist at her toilet,
that she was undoubtedly sometimes absent from her room in the very early morning, and
at various times later in the day, before she wished it to be understood that she was
stirring. She was repeatedly seen from the windows of the schloss, in the first faint grey of
the morning, walking through the trees, in an easterly direction, and looking like a person
in a trance. This convinced me that she walked in her sleep. But this hypothesis did not
solve the puzzle. How did she pass out from her room, leaving the door locked on the
inside? How did she escape from the house without unbarring door or window?
“In the midst of my perplexities, an anxiety of a far more urgent kind presented itself.
“My dear child began to lose her looks and health, and that in a manner so mysterious,
and even horrible, that I became thoroughly frightened.
“She was at first visited by appalling dreams; then, as she fancied, by a specter,
sometimes resembling Millarca, sometimes in the shape of a beast, indistinctly seen,
walking round the foot of her bed, from side to side.
Lastly came sensations. One, not unpleasant, but very peculiar, she said, resembled the
flow of an icy stream against her breast. At a later time, she felt something like a pair of
large needles pierce her, a little below the throat, with a very sharp pain. A few nights
after, followed a gradual and convulsive sense of strangulation; then came
unconsciousness.”
I could hear distinctly every word the kind old General was saying, because by this
time we were driving upon the short grass that spreads on either side of the road as you
approach the roofless village which had not shown the smoke of a chimney for more than
half a century.
You may guess how strangely I felt as I heard my own symptoms so exactly described
in those which had been experienced by the poor girl who, but for the catastrophe which
followed, would have been at that moment a visitor at my father’s chateau. You may
suppose, also, how I felt as I heard him detail habits and mysterious peculiarities which
were, in fact, those of our beautiful guest, Carmilla!
A vista opened in the forest; we were on a sudden under the chimneys and gables of
the ruined village, and the towers and battlements of the dismantled castle, round which
gigantic trees are grouped, overhung us from a slight eminence.
In a frightened dream I got down from the carriage, and in silence, for we had each
abundant matter for thinking; we soon mounted the ascent, and were among the spacious
chambers, winding stairs, and dark corridors of the castle.
“And this was once the palatial residence of the Karnsteins!” said the old General at
length, as from a great window he looked out across the village, and saw the wide,
undulating expanse of forest. “It was a bad family, and here its bloodstained annals were
written,” he continued. “It is hard that they should, after death, continue to plague the
human race with their atrocious lusts. That is the chapel of the Karnsteins, down there.”
He pointed down to the grey walls of the Gothic building partly visible through the
foliage, a little way down the steep. “And I hear the axe of a woodman,” he added, “busy
among the trees that surround it; he possibly may give us the information of which I am in
search, and point out the grave of Mircalla, Countess of Karnstein. These rustics preserve
the local traditions of great families, whose stories die out among the rich and titled so
soon as the families themselves become extinct.”
“We have a portrait, at home, of Mircalla, the Countess Karnstein; should you like to
see it?” asked my father.
“Time enough, dear friend,” replied the General. “I believe that I have seen the original;
and one motive which has led me to you earlier than I at first intended, was to explore the
chapel which we are now approaching.”
“What! see the Countess Mircalla,” exclaimed my father; “why, she has been dead
more than a century!”
“Not so dead as you fancy, I am told,” answered the General.
 “I confess, General, you puzzle me utterly,” replied my father, looking at him, I fancied,
for a moment with a return of the suspicion I detected before. But although there was
anger and detestation, at times, in the old General’s manner, there was nothing flighty.
“There remains to me,” he said, as we passed under the heavy arch of the Gothic
church—for its dimensions would have justified its being so styled—“but one object
which can interest me during the few years that remain to me on earth, and that is to
wreak on her the vengeance which, I thank God, may still be accomplished by a mortal
arm.”
“What vengeance can you mean?” asked my father, in increasing amazement.
“I mean, to decapitate the monster,” he answered, with a fierce flush, and a stamp that
echoed mournfully through the hollow ruin, and his clenched hand was at the same
moment raised, as if it grasped the handle of an axe, while he shook it ferociously in the
air.
“What?” exclaimed my father, more than ever bewildered.
“To strike her head off.”
“Cut her head off!”
“Aye, with a hatchet, with a spade, or with anything that can cleave through her
murderous throat. You shall hear,” he answered, trembling with rage. And hurrying
forward he said:
“That beam will answer for a seat; your dear child is fatigued; let her be seated, and I
will, in a few sentences, close my dreadful story.”
The squared block of wood, which lay on the grass-grown pavement of the chapel,
formed a bench on which I was very glad to seat myself, and in the meantime the General
called to the woodman, who had been removing some boughs which leaned upon the old
walls; and, axe in hand, the hardy old fellow stood before us.
He could not tell us anything of these monuments; but there was an old man, he said, a
ranger of this forest, at present sojourning in the house of the priest, about two miles
away, who could point out every monument of the old Karnstein family; and, for a trifle,
he undertook to bring him back with him, if we would lend him one of our horses, in little
more than half an hour.
“Have you been long employed about this forest?” asked my father of the old man.
“I have been a woodman here,” he answered in his patois, “under the forester, all my
days; so has my father before me, and so on, as many generations as I can count up. I
could show you the very house in the village here, in which my ancestors lived.”
“How came the village to be deserted?” asked the General.
“It was troubled by revenants, sir; several were tracked to their graves, there detected
by the usual tests, and extinguished in the usual way, by decapitation, by the stake, and by
burning; but not until many of the villagers were killed.
“But after all these proceedings according to law,” he continued—“so many graves
opened, and so many vampires deprived of their horrible animation—the village was not
relieved. But a Moravian nobleman, who happened to be traveling this way, heard how
matters were, and being skilled—as many people are in his country—in such affairs, he
offered to deliver the village from its tormentor. He did so thus: There being a bright moon
that night, he ascended, shortly after sunset, the towers of the chapel here, from whence
he could distinctly see the churchyard beneath him; you can see it from that window.
From this point he watched until he saw the vampire come out of his grave, and place
near it the linen clothes in which he had been folded, and then glide away towards the
village to plague its inhabitants.
“The stranger, having seen all this, came down from the steeple, took the linen
wrappings of the vampire, and carried them up to the top of the tower, which he again
mounted. When the vampire returned from his prowlings and missed his clothes, he cried
furiously to the Moravian, whom he saw at the summit of the tower, and who, in reply,
beckoned him to ascend and take them. Whereupon the vampire, accepting his invitation,
began to climb the steeple, and so soon as he had reached the battlements, the Moravian,
with a stroke of his sword, clove his skull in twain, hurling him down to the churchyard,
whither, descending by the winding stairs, the stranger followed and cut his head off, and
next day delivered it and the body to the villagers, who duly impaled and burnt them.
“This Moravian nobleman had authority from the then head of the family to remove the
tomb of Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, which he did effectually, so that in a little while its
site was quite forgotten.”
“Can you point out where it stood?” asked the General, eagerly.
 The forester shook his head, and smiled.
“Not a soul living could tell you that now,” he said; “besides, they say her body was
removed; but no one is sure of that either.”
Having thus spoken, as time pressed, he dropped his axe and departed, leaving us to
hear the remainder of the General’s strange story.
 XIV.
The Meeting
“My beloved child,” he resumed, “was now growing rapidly worse. The physician who
attended her had failed to produce the slightest impression on her disease, for such I then
supposed it to be. He saw my alarm, and suggested a consultation. I called in an abler
physician, from Gratz.
Several days elapsed before he arrived. He was a good and pious, as well as a learned
man. Having seen my poor ward together, they withdrew to my library to confer and
discuss. I, from the adjoining room, where I awaited their summons, heard these two
gentlemen’s voices raised in something sharper than a strictly philosophical discussion. I
knocked at the door and entered. I found the old physician from Gratz maintaining his
theory. His rival was combating it with undisguised ridicule, accompanied with bursts of
laughter. This unseemly manifestation subsided and the altercation ended on my entrance.
“‘Sir,’ said my first physician,’my learned brother seems to think that you want a
conjuror, and not a doctor.’
“‘Pardon me,’ said the old physician from Gratz, looking displeased, ‘I shall state my
own view of the case in my own way another time. I grieve, Monsieur le General, that by
my skill and science I can be of no use.
Before I go I shall do myself the honor to suggest something to you.’
“He seemed thoughtful, and sat down at a table and began to write.
Profoundly disappointed, I made my bow, and as I turned to go, the other doctor
pointed over his shoulder to his companion who was writing, and then, with a shrug,
significantly touched his forehead.
“This consultation, then, left me precisely where I was. I walked out into the grounds,
all but distracted. The doctor from Gratz, in ten or fifteen minutes, overtook me. He
apologized for having followed me, but said that he could not conscientiously take his
leave without a few words more. He told me that he could not be mistaken; no natural
disease exhibited the same symptoms; and that death was already very near. There
remained, however, a day, or possibly two, of life. If the fatal seizure were at once
arrested, with great care and skill her strength might possibly return. But all hung now
upon the confines of the irrevocable. One more assault might extinguish the last spark of
vitality which is, every moment, ready to die.
“‘And what is the nature of the seizure you speak of?’ I entreated.
“‘I have stated all fully in this note, which I place in your hands upon the distinct
condition that you send for the nearest clergyman, and open my letter in his presence, and
on no account read it till he is with you; you would despise it else, and it is a matter of life
and death. Should the priest fail you, then, indeed, you may read it.’
“He asked me, before taking his leave finally, whether I would wish to see a man
curiously learned upon the very subject, which, after I had read his letter, would probably
interest me above all others, and he urged me earnestly to invite him to visit him there; and
so took his leave.
“The ecclesiastic was absent, and I read the letter by myself. At another time, or in
another case, it might have excited my ridicule. But into what quackeries will not people
rush for a last chance, where all accustomed means have failed, and the life of a beloved
object is at stake?
“Nothing, you will say, could be more absurd than the learned man’s letter.
It was monstrous enough to have consigned him to a madhouse. He said that the
patient was suffering from the visits of a vampire! The punctures which she described as
having occurred near the throat, were, he insisted, the insertion of those two long, thin,
and sharp teeth which, it is well known, are peculiar to vampires; and there could be no
doubt, he added, as to the well-defined presence of the small livid mark which all
concurred in describing as that induced by the demon’s lips, and every symptom
described by the sufferer was in exact conformity with those recorded in every case of a
similar visitation.
“Being myself wholly skeptical as to the existence of any such portent as the vampire,
the supernatural theory of the good doctor furnished, in my opinion, but another instance
of learning and intelligence oddly associated with some one hallucination. I was so
miserable, however, that, rather than try nothing, I acted upon the instructions of the
letter.
 “I concealed myself in the dark dressing room, that opened upon the poor patient’s
room, in which a candle was burning, and watched there till she was fast asleep. I stood
at the door, peeping through the small crevice, my sword laid on the table beside me, as
my directions prescribed, until, a little after one, I saw a large black object, very ill-
defined, crawl, as it seemed to me, over the foot of the bed, and swiftly spread itself up to
the poor girl’s throat, where it swelled, in a moment, into a great, palpitating mass.
“For a few moments I had stood petrified. I now sprang forward, with my sword in my
hand. The black creature suddenly contracted towards the foot of the bed, glided over it,
and, standing on the floor about a yard below the foot of the bed, with a glare of skulking
ferocity and horror fixed on me, I saw Millarca. Speculating I know not what, I struck at
her instantly with my sword; but I saw her standing near the door, unscathed. Horrified, I
pursued, and struck again. She was gone; and my sword flew to shivers against the door.
“I can’t describe to you all that passed on that horrible night. The whole house was up
and stirring. The specter Millarca was gone. But her victim was sinking fast, and before
the morning dawned, she died.”
The old General was agitated. We did not speak to him. My father walked to some
little distance, and began reading the inscriptions on the tombstones; and thus occupied,
he strolled into the door of a side chapel to prosecute his researches. The General leaned
against the wall, dried his eyes, and sighed heavily. I was relieved on hearing the voices of
Carmilla and Madame, who were at that moment approaching. The voices died away.
In this solitude, having just listened to so strange a story, connected, as it was, with the
great and titled dead, whose monuments were moldering among the dust and ivy round
us, and every incident of which bore so awfully upon my own mysterious case—in this
haunted spot, darkened by the towering foliage that rose on every side, dense and high
above its noiseless walls—a horror began to steal over me, and my heart sank as I
thought that my friends were, after all, not about to enter and disturb this triste and
ominous scene.
The old General’s eyes were fixed on the ground, as he leaned with his hand upon the
basement of a shattered monument.
Under a narrow, arched doorway, surmounted by one of those demoniacal grotesques
in which the cynical and ghastly fancy of old Gothic carving delights, I saw very gladly the
beautiful face and figure of Carmilla enter the shadowy chapel.
I was just about to rise and speak, and nodded smiling, in answer to her peculiarly
engaging smile; when with a cry, the old man by my side caught up the woodman’s
hatchet, and started forward. On seeing him a brutalized change came over her features.
It was an instantaneous and horrible transformation, as she made a crouching step
backwards. Before I could utter a scream, he struck at her with all his force, but she
dived under his blow, and unscathed, caught him in her tiny grasp by the wrist. He
struggled for a moment to release his arm, but his hand opened, the axe fell to the ground,
and the girl was gone.
He staggered against the wall. His grey hair stood upon his head, and a moisture shone
over his face, as if he were at the point of death.
The frightful scene had passed in a moment. The first thing I recollect after, is Madame
standing before me, and impatiently repeating again and again, the question, “Where is
Mademoiselle Carmilla?”
I answered at length, “I don’t know—I can’t tell—she went there,” and I pointed to
the door through which Madame had just entered; “only a minute or two since.”
“But I have been standing there, in the passage, ever since Mademoiselle Carmilla
entered; and she did not return.”
She then began to call “Carmilla,” through every door and passage and from the
windows, but no answer came.
“She called herself Carmilla?” asked the General, still agitated.
“Carmilla, yes,” I answered.
“Aye,” he said; “that is Millarca. That is the same person who long ago was called
Mircalla, Countess Karnstein. Depart from this accursed ground, my poor child, as
quickly as you can. Drive to the clergyman’s house, and stay there till we come. Begone!
May you never behold Carmilla more; you will not find her here.”
 XV.
Ordeal and Execution
As he spoke one of the strangest looking men I ever beheld entered the chapel at the
door through which Carmilla had made her entrance and her exit. He was tall, narrow-
chested, stooping, with high shoulders, and dressed in black. His face was brown and
dried in with deep furrows; he wore an oddly-shaped hat with a broad leaf. His hair, long
and grizzled, hung on his shoulders. He wore a pair of gold spectacles, and walked
slowly, with an odd shambling gait, with his face sometimes turned up to the sky, and
sometimes bowed down towards the ground, seemed to wear a perpetual smile; his long
thin arms were swinging, and his lank hands, in old black gloves ever so much too wide
for them, waving and gesticulating in utter abstraction.
“The very man!” exclaimed the General, advancing with manifest delight. “My dear
Baron, how happy I am to see you, I had no hope of meeting you so soon.” He signed to
my father, who had by this time returned, and leading the fantastic old gentleman, whom
he called the Baron to meet him. He introduced him formally, and they at once entered
into earnest conversation. The stranger took a roll of paper from his pocket, and spread it
on the worn surface of a tomb that stood by. He had a pencil case in his fingers, with
which he traced imaginary lines from point to point on the paper, which from their often
glancing from it, together, at certain points of the building, I concluded to be a plan of the
chapel. He accompanied, what I may term, his lecture, with occasional readings from a
dirty little book, whose yellow leaves were closely written over.
They sauntered together down the side aisle, opposite to the spot where I was
standing, conversing as they went; then they began measuring distances by paces, and
finally they all stood together, facing a piece of the sidewall, which they began to examine
with great minuteness; pulling off the ivy that clung over it, and rapping the plaster with the
ends of their sticks, scraping here, and knocking there. At length they ascertained the
existence of a broad marble tablet, with letters carved in relief upon it.
With the assistance of the woodman, who soon returned, a monumental inscription,
and carved escutcheon, were disclosed. They proved to be those of the long lost
monument of Mircalla, Countess Karnstein.
The old General, though not I fear given to the praying mood, raised his hands and
eyes to heaven, in mute thanksgiving for some moments.
“Tomorrow,” I heard him say; “the commissioner will be here, and the Inquisition will
be held according to law.”
Then turning to the old man with the gold spectacles, whom I have described, he
shook him warmly by both hands and said:
“Baron, how can I thank you? How can we all thank you? You will have delivered this
region from a plague that has scourged its inhabitants for more than a century. The
horrible enemy, thank God, is at last tracked.”
My father led the stranger aside, and the General followed. I know that he had led
them out of hearing, that he might relate my case, and I saw them glance often quickly at
me, as the discussion proceeded.
My father came to me, kissed me again and again, and leading me from the chapel,
said:
“It is time to return, but before we go home, we must add to our party the good priest,
who lives but a little way from this; and persuade him to accompany us to the schloss.”
In this quest we were successful: and I was glad, being unspeakably fatigued when we
reached home. But my satisfaction was changed to dismay, on discovering that there
were no tidings of Carmilla. Of the scene that had occurred in the ruined chapel, no
explanation was offered to me, and it was clear that it was a secret which my father for
the present determined to keep from me.
The sinister absence of Carmilla made the remembrance of the scene more horrible to
me. The arrangements for the night were singular. Two servants, and Madame were to sit
up in my room that night; and the ecclesiastic with my father kept watch in the adjoining
dressing room.
The priest had performed certain solemn rites that night, the purport of which I did not
understand any more than I comprehended the reason of this extraordinary precaution
taken for my safety during sleep.
I saw all clearly a few days later.
 The disappearance of Carmilla was followed by the discontinuance of my nightly
sufferings.
You have heard, no doubt, of the appalling superstition that prevails in Upper and
Lower Styria, in Moravia, Silesia, in Turkish Serbia, in Poland, even in Russia; the
superstition, so we must call it, of the Vampire.
If human testimony, taken with every care and solemnity, judicially, before
commissions innumerable, each consisting of many members, all chosen for integrity and
intelligence, and constituting reports more voluminous perhaps than exist upon any one
other class of cases, is worth anything, it is difficult to deny, or even to doubt the
existence of such a phenomenon as the Vampire.
For my part I have heard no theory by which to explain what I myself have witnessed
and experienced, other than that supplied by the ancient and well-attested belief of the
country.
The next day the formal proceedings took place in the Chapel of Karnstein.
The grave of the Countess Mircalla was opened; and the General and my father
recognized each his perfidious and beautiful guest, in the face now disclosed to view. The
features, though a hundred and fifty years had passed since her funeral, were tinted with
the warmth of life. Her eyes were open; no cadaverous smell exhaled from the coffin. The
two medical men, one officially present, the other on the part of the promoter of the
inquiry, attested the marvelous fact that there was a faint but appreciable respiration, and
a corresponding action of the heart. The limbs were perfectly flexible, the flesh elastic;
and the leaden coffin floated with blood, in which to a depth of seven inches, the body lay
immersed.
Here then, were all the admitted signs and proofs of vampirism. The body, therefore, in
accordance with the ancient practice, was raised, and a sharp stake driven through the
heart of the vampire, who uttered a piercing shriek at the moment, in all respects such as
might escape from a living person in the last agony. Then the head was struck off, and a
torrent of blood flowed from the severed neck. The body and head was next placed on a
pile of wood, and reduced to ashes, which were thrown upon the river and borne away,
and that territory has never since been plagued by the visits of a vampire.
My father has a copy of the report of the Imperial Commission, with the signatures of
all who were present at these proceedings, attached in verification of the statement. It is
from this official paper that I have summarized my account of this last shocking scene.
 XVI.
Conclusion
I write all this you suppose with composure. But far from it; I cannot think of it without
agitation. Nothing but your earnest desire so repeatedly expressed, could have induced
me to sit down to a task that has unstrung my nerves for months to come, and reinduced
a shadow of the unspeakable horror which years after my deliverance continued to make
my days and nights dreadful, and solitude insupportably terrific.
Let me add a word or two about that quaint Baron Vordenburg, to whose curious lore
we were indebted for the discovery of the Countess Mircalla’s grave.
He had taken up his abode in Gratz, where, living upon a mere pittance, which was all
that remained to him of the once princely estates of his family, in Upper Styria, he
devoted himself to the minute and laborious investigation of the marvelously authenticated
tradition of Vampirism. He had at his fingers’ ends all the great and little works upon the
subject.
“Magia Posthuma,” “Phlegon de Mirabilibus,” “Augustinus de cura pro Mortuis,”
“Philosophicae et Christianae Cogitationes de Vampiris,” by John Christofer Herenberg;
and a thousand others, among which I remember only a few of those which he lent to my
father. He had a voluminous digest of all the judicial cases, from which he had extracted a
system of principles that appear to govern—some always, and others occasionally only—
the condition of the vampire. I may mention, in passing, that the deadly pallor attributed to
that sort of revenants, is a mere melodramatic fiction. They present, in the grave, and
when they show themselves in human society, the appearance of healthy life. When
disclosed to light in their coffins, they exhibit all the symptoms that are enumerated as
those which proved the vampire-life of the long-dead Countess Karnstein.
How they escape from their graves and return to them for certain hours every day,
without displacing the clay or leaving any trace of disturbance in the state of the coffin or
the cerements, has always been admitted to be utterly inexplicable. The amphibious
existence of the vampire is sustained by daily renewed slumber in the grave. Its horrible
lust for living blood supplies the vigor of its waking existence. The vampire is prone to be
fascinated with an engrossing vehemence, resembling the passion of love, by particular
persons. In pursuit of these it will exercise inexhaustible patience and stratagem, for
access to a particular object may be obstructed in a hundred ways. It will never desist
until it has satiated its passion, and drained the very life of its coveted victim. But it will, in
these cases, husband and protract its murderous enjoyment with the refinement of an
epicure, and heighten it by the gradual approaches of an artful courtship. In these cases it
seems to yearn for something like sympathy and consent. In ordinary ones it goes direct
to its object, overpowers with violence, and strangles and exhausts often at a single feast.
The vampire is, apparently, subject, in certain situations, to special conditions. In the
particular instance of which I have given you a relation, Mircalla seemed to be limited to a
name which, if not her real one, should at least reproduce, without the omission or
addition of a single letter, those, as we say, anagrammatically, which compose it.
Carmilla did this; so did Millarca.
My father related to the Baron Vordenburg, who remained with us for two or three
weeks after the expulsion of Carmilla, the story about the Moravian nobleman and the
vampire at Karnstein churchyard, and then he asked the Baron how he had discovered
the exact position of the long-concealed tomb of the Countess Mircalla? The Baron’s
grotesque features puckered up into a mysterious smile; he looked down, still smiling on
his worn spectacle case and fumbled with it. Then looking up, he said:
“I have many journals, and other papers, written by that remarkable man; the most
curious among them is one treating of the visit of which you speak, to Karnstein. The
tradition, of course, discolors and distorts a little. He might have been termed a Moravian
nobleman, for he had changed his abode to that territory, and was, beside, a noble. But
he was, in truth, a native of Upper Styria. It is enough to say that in very early youth he
had been a passionate and favored lover of the beautiful Mircalla, Countess Karnstein.
Her early death plunged him into inconsolable grief. It is the nature of vampires to
increase and multiply, but according to an ascertained and ghostly law.
“Assume, at starting, a territory perfectly free from that pest. How does it begin, and
how does it multiply itself? I will tell you. A person, more or less wicked, puts an end to
himself. A suicide, under certain circumstances, becomes a vampire. That specter visits
living people in their slumbers; they die, and almost invariably, in the grave, develop into
vampires. This happened in the case of the beautiful Mircalla, who was haunted by one of
those demons. My ancestor, Vordenburg, whose title I still bear, soon discovered this,
and in the course of the studies to which he devoted himself, learned a great deal more.
“Among other things, he concluded that suspicion of vampirism would probably fall,
sooner or later, upon the dead Countess, who in life had been his idol. He conceived a
horror, be she what she might, of her remains being profaned by the outrage of a
posthumous execution. He has left a curious paper to prove that the vampire, on its
expulsion from its amphibious existence, is projected into a far more horrible life; and he
resolved to save his once beloved Mircalla from this.
“He adopted the stratagem of a journey here, a pretended removal of her remains, and
a real obliteration of her monument. When age had stolen upon him, and from the vale of
years, he looked back on the scenes he was leaving, he considered, in a different spirit,
what he had done, and a horror took possession of him. He made the tracings and notes
which have guided me to the very spot, and drew up a confession of the deception that he
had practiced. If he had intended any further action in this matter, death prevented him;
and the hand of a remote descendant has, too late for many, directed the pursuit to the
lair of the beast.”
We talked a little more, and among other things he said was this:
“One sign of the vampire is the power of the hand. The slender hand of Mircalla closed
like a vice of steel on the General’s wrist when he raised the hatchet to strike. But its
power is not confined to its grasp; it leaves a numbness in the limb it seizes, which is
slowly, if ever, recovered from.”
The following Spring my father took me a tour through Italy. We remained away for
more than a year. It was long before the terror of recent events subsided; and to this hour
the image of Carmilla returns to memory with ambiguous alternations—sometimes the
playful, languid, beautiful girl; sometimes the writhing fiend I saw in the ruined church; and
often from a reverie I have started, fancying I heard the light step of Carmilla at the
drawing room door.

Other books by J. Sheridan LeFanu

The Cock and Anchor

Torlogh O’Brien
The House by the Churchyard
Uncle Silas
Checkmate
Carmilla
The Wyvern Mystery
Guy Deverell
Ghost Stories and Tales of Mystery
The Chronicles of Golden Friars
In a Glass Darkly
The Purcell Papers
The Watcher and Other Weird Stories
A Chronicle of Golden Friars and Other Stories
Madam Growl’s Ghost and Other Tales of Mystery
Green Tea and Other Stories
Sheridan LeFanu: The Diabolic Genius
Best Ghost Stories of J.S. LeFanu
The Best Horror Stories
The Vampire Lovers and Other Stories
Ghost Stories and Mysteries
The Hours After Midnight
J.S. LeFanu: Ghost Stories and Mysteries
Ghost and Horror Stories
Green Tea and Other Ghost Stones
Carmilla and Other Classic Tales of Mystery

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