CHAPTER 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 colour a rich
very dark brown, with something of gold. I loved to let it down, tumbling with
its own weight, as, in her room, she lay back in her chair talking, in her
sweet low voice, I used to fold and braid it, and spread it out and play with
it. Heavens! If I had but known all!
I
said there were particulars which did not please me. I have told you that her
confidence won me the first night I saw her; but I found that she exercised
with respect to herself, her mother, her history, everything in fact connected
with her life, plans, and people, an ever wakeful reserve. I dare say I was
unreasonable, perhaps I was wrong; I dare say I ought to have respected the
solemn injunction laid upon my father by the stately lady in black velvet. But
curiosity is a restless and unscrupulous passion, and no one girl can endure,
with patience, that her's should be baffled by another. What harm could it do
anyone to tell me what I so ardently desired to know? Had she no trust in my
good sense or honour? Why would she not believe me when I assured her, so
solemnly, that I would not divulge one syllable of what she told me to any
mortal breathing.
There
was a coldness, it seemed to me, beyond her years, in her smiling melancholy
persistent refusal to afford me the least ray of light.
I
cannot say we quarrelled upon this point, for she would not quarrel upon any.
It was, of course, very unfair of me to press her, very ill-bred, but I really
could not help it; and I might just as well have let it alone.
What
she did tell me amounted, in my unconscionable estimation—to nothing. It was
all summed up in three very vague disclosures:
First.—Her
name was Carmilla.
Second.—Her
family was very ancient and noble.
Third.—Her
home lay in the direction of the west.
She
would not tell me the name of her family, nor their armorial bearings, nor the
name of their estate, nor even that of the country they lived in.
You
are not to suppose that I worried her incessantly on these subjects. I watched
opportunity, and rather insinuated than urged my inquiries. Once or twice,
indeed, I did attack her more directly. But no matter what my tactics, utter
failure was invariably the result. Reproaches and caresses were all lost upon
her. But I must add this, that her evasion was conducted with so pretty a
melancholy and deprecation, with so many, and even passionate declarations of
her liking for me, and trust in my honour, and with so many promises that I
should at last know all, that I could not find it in my heart long to be
offended with her.
She
used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me to her, and laying her
cheek to mine, murmur with her lips near my ear, "Dearest, your little
heart is wounded; think me not cruel because I obey the irresistible law of my
strength and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with
yours. In the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live in your warm life, and
you shall die—die, sweetly die—into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to
you, you, in your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that
cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and
mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit."
And
when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely in her
trembling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently glow upon my cheek.
Her
agitations and her language were unintelligible to me.
From
these foolish embraces, which were not of very frequent occurrence, I must
allow, I used to wish to extricate myself; but my energies seemed to fail me,
Her murmured words sounded like a lullaby in my ear, and soothed my resistance
into a trance, from which I only seemed to recover myself when she withdrew her
arms.
In
these mysterious moods I did not like her. I experienced a strange tumultuous
excitement that was pleasurable, ever and anon, mingled with a vague sense of
fear and disgust. I had no distinct thoughts about her while such scenes
lasted, but I was conscious of a love growing into adoration, and also of
abhorrence. This I know is paradox, but I can make no other attempt to explain
the feeling.
I
now write, after an interval of more than ten years, with a trembling hand,
with a confused and horrible recollection of certain occurrences and
situations, in the ordeal through which I was unconsciously passing; though
with a vivid and very sharp remembrance of the main current of my story. But, I
suspect, in all lives there are certain emotional scenes, those in which our
passions have been most wildly and terribly roused, that are of all others the
most vaguely and dimly remembered.
Sometimes
after an hour of apathy, my strange and beautiful companion would take my hand
and hold it with a fond pressure, renewed again and again; blushing softly,
gazing 'in my face with languid and burning eyes, and breathing so fast that
her dress rose and fell with the tumultuous respiration. It was like the ardour
of a lover; it embarrassed me; it was hateful and yet overpowering; and with
gloating eyes she drew me to her, and her hot lips travelled along my cheek in
kisses; and she would whisper, almost in sobs, "You are mine, you shall be
mine, you and I are one for ever." Then she has thrown herself back in her
chair, with her small hands over her eyes, leaving me trembling.
"Are
we related," I used to ask; "what can you mean by all this? I remind
you perhaps of some one whom you love; but you must not, I hate it; I don't
know you—I don't know myself when you look so and talk so."
She
used to sigh at my vehemence, then turn away and drop my hand.
Respecting
these very extraordinary manifestations I strove in vain to form any
satisfactory theory—I could not refer them to affectation or trick. It was
unmistakably the momentary breaking out of suppressed instinct and emotion. Was
she, notwithstanding her mother's volunteered denial, subject to brief
visitations of insanity; or was there here a disguise and a romance? I had read
in old story books of such things. What if a boyish lover had found his way
into the house, and sought to prosecute his suit in masquerade, with the
assistance of a clever old adventuress. But there were many things against this
hypothesis, highly interesting as it was to my vanity.
I
could boast of no little attentions such as masculine gallantry delights to
offer. Between these passionate moments there were long intervals of
common-place, of gaiety, of brooding melancholy, during which, except that I
detected her eyes so full of melancholy fire, following me, at times I might
have been as nothing to her. Except in these brief periods of mysterious
excitement her ways were girlish; and there was always a langour about her,
quite incompatible with a masculine system in a state of health.
In
some respects her habits were odd. Perhaps not so singular in the opinion of a
town lady like you, as they appeared to us rustic people. She used to come down
very late, generally not till one o'clock, she would then take a cup of
chocolate, but eat nothing; we then went out for a walk, which was a mere
saunter, and she seemed, almost immediately, exhausted, and either returned to
the schloss or sat on one of the benches that were placed, here and there,
among the trees. This was a bodily langour in which her mind did not sympathise.
She was always an animated talker, and very intelligent.
She
sometimes alluded for a moment to her own home, or mentioned an adventure or
situation, or an early recollection, which indicated a people of strange
manners, and described customs of which we knew nothing. I gathered from these
chance hints that her native country was much more remote than I had at first
fancied.
As
we sat thus one afternoon under the trees a funeral passed us by. It was that
of a pretty young girl, whom I had often seen, the daughter of one of the
rangers of the forest. The poor man was walking behind the coffin of his
darling; she was his only child, and he looked quite heartbroken. Peasants
walking two-and-two came behind, they were singing a funeral hymn.
I
rose to mark my respect as they passed, and joined in the hymn they were very
sweetly singing.
My
companion shook me a little roughly, and I turned surprised.
She
said brusquely, "Don't you perceive how discordant that is?"
"I
think it very sweet, on the contrary," I answered, vexed at the
interruption, and very uncomfortable, lest the people who composed the little
procession should observe and resent what was passing.
I
resumed, therefore, instantly, and was again interrupted. "You pierce my
ears," said Carmilla, almost angrily, and stopping her ears with her tiny
fingers. "Besides, how can you tell that your religion and mine are the
same; your forms wound me, and I hate funerals. What a fuss! Why you must die
—everyone must die; and all are happier when they do. Come home."
"My
father has gone on with the clergyman to the churchyard. I thought you knew she
was to be buried to day."
"She?
I don't trouble my head about peasants. I don't know who she is," answered
Carmilla, with a flash from her fine eyes.
"She
is the poor girl who fancied she saw a ghost a fortnight ago, and has been
dying ever since, till yesterday, when she expired."
"Tell
me nothing about ghosts. I shan't sleep to-night, if you do."
"I
hope there is no plague or fever coming; all this looks very like it," I
continued. "The swineherd's young wife died only a week ago, and she
thought something seized her by the throat as she lay in her bed, and nearly
strangled her. Papa says such horrible fancies do accompany some forms of
fever. She was quite well the day before. She sank afterwards, and died before
a week."
"Well,
her funeral is over, I hope, and her hymn sung; and our ears shan't be tortured
with that discord and jargon. It has made me nervous. Sit down here, beside me;
sit close; hold my hand; press it hard—hard—harder."
We
had moved a little back, and had come to another seat.
She
sat down. Her face underwent a change that alarmed and even terrified me for a
moment. It darkened, and became horribly livid; her teeth and hands were
clenched, and she frowned and compressed her hps, while she stared down upon
the ground at her feet, and trembled all over with a continued shudder as
irrepressible as ague. All her energies seemed strained to suppress a fit, with
which she was then breathlessly tugging; and at length a low convulsive cry of
suffering broke from her, and gradually the hysteria subsided. "There!
That comes of strangling people with hymns!" she said at last. "Hold
me, hold me still. It is passing away."
And
so gradually it did; and perhaps to dissipate the sombre impression which the
spectacle had left upon me, she became unusually animated and chatty; and so we
got home.
This
was the first time I had seen her exhibit any definable symptoms of that
delicacy of health which her mother had spoken of. It was the first time, also,
I had seen her exhibit anything like temper.
Both
passed away like a summer cloud; and never but once afterwards did I witness on
her part a momentary sign of anger. I will tell you how it happened.
She
and I were looking out of one of the long drawing-room windows, when there
entered the court-yard, over the drawbridge, a figure of a wanderer whom I knew
very well. He used to visit the schloss generally twice a year.
It
was the figure of a hunchback, with the sharp lean features that generally
accompany deformity. He wore a pointed black beard, and he was smiling from ear
to ear, showing his white fangs. He was dressed in buff, black, and scarlet,
and crossed with more straps and belts than I could count, from which hung all
manner of things. Behind, he carried a magic-lantern, and two boxes, which I
well knew, in one of which was a salamander, and in the other a mandrake. These
monsters used to make my father laugh. They were compounded of parts of
monkeys, parrots, squirrels, fish, and hedgehogs, dried and stitched together
with great neatness and startling effect. He had a fiddle, a box of conjuring
apparatus, a pair of foils and masks attached to his belt, several other
mysterious cases dangling about him, and a black staff with copper ferrules in
his hand. His companion was a rough spare dog, that followed at his heels, but
stopped short, suspiciously at the drawbridge, and in a little while began to
howl dismally.
In
the meantime, the mountebank, standing in the midst of the court-yard, raised
his grotesque hat, and made us a very ceremonious bow, paying his compliments
very volubly in execrable French, and German not much better. Then, disengaging
his fiddle, he began to scrape a lively air, to which he sang with a merry
discord, dancing with ludicrous airs and activity, that made me laugh, in spite
of the dog's howling.
Then
he advanced to the window with many smiles and salutations, and his hat in his
left hand, his fiddle under his arm, and with a fluency that never took breath,
he gabbled a long advertisement of all his accomplishments, and the resources
of the various arts which he placed at our service, and the curiosities and
entertainments which it was in his power, at our bidding, to display.
"Will
your ladyships be pleased to buy an amulet against the oupire, which is going
like the wolf, I hear, through these woods," he said, dropping his hat on
the pavement.
"They
are dying of it right and left, and here is a charm that never fails; only
pinned to the pillow, and you may laugh in his face."
These
charms consisted of oblong slips of vellum, with cabalistic ciphers and
diagrams upon them.
Carmilla
instantly purchased one, and so did I.
He
was looking up, and we were smiling down upon him, amused; at least, I can
answer for myself. His piercing black eye, as he looked up in our faces, seemed
to detect something that fixed for a moment his curiosity.
In
an instant he unrolled a leather case, full of all manner of odd little steel
instruments.
"See
here, my lady," he said, displaying it, and addressing me, "I
profess, among other things less useful, the art of dentistry. Plague take the
dog!" he interpolated.
"Silence,
beast! He howls so that your ladyships can scarcely hear a word. Your noble
friend, the young lady at your right, has the sharpest tooth,—long, thin,
pointed, like an awl, like a needle; ha, ha! With my sharp and long sight, as I
look up, I have seen it distinctly; now if it happens to hurt the young lady,
and I think it must, here am I, here are my file, my punch, my nippers; I will
make it round and blunt, if her ladyship pleases; no longer the tooth of a
fish, but of a beautiful young lady as she is. Hey? Is the young lady
displeased? Have I been too bold? Have I offended her?"
The
young lady, indeed, looked very angry as she drew back from the window.
"How
dares that mountebank insult us so? Where is your father? I shall demand
redress from him. My father would have had the wretch tied up to the pump, and
flogged with a cart-whip, and burnt to the bones with the castle brand!"
She
retired from the window a step or two, and sat down, and had hardly lost sight
of the offender, when her wrath subsided as suddenly as it had risen, and she
gradually recovered her usual tone, and seemed to forget the little hunchback
and his follies.
My
father was out of spirits that evening. On coming in he told us that there had
been another case very similar to the two fatal ones which had lately occurred.
The sister of a young peasant on his estate, only a mile away, was very ill,
had been, as she described it, attacked very nearly in the same way, and was
now slowly but steadily sinking.
"All
this," said my father, "is strictly referable to natural causes.
These poor people infect one another with their superstitions, and so repeat in
imagination the images of terror that have infested their neighbours."
"But
that very circumstance frightens one horribly," said Carmilla.
"How
so?" inquired my father.
"I
am so afraid of fancying I see such things; I think it would be as bad as
reality."
"We
are in God's hands; nothing can happen without his permission, and all will end
well for those who love him. He is our faithful creator; He has made us all,
and will take care of us."
"Creator!
Nature!" said the young lady in answer to my gentle father. "And this
disease that invades the country is natural. Nature. All things proceed from
Nature — don't they? All things in the heaven, in the earth, and under the
earth, act and live as Nature ordains? I think so."
"The
doctor said he would come here today," said my father, after a silence.
"I want to know what he thinks about it, and what he thinks we had better
do."
"Doctors
never did me any good," said Carmilla.
"Then
you have been ill?" I asked.
"More
ill than ever you were," she answered.
"Long
ago?"
"Yes,
a long time. I suffered from this very illness; but I forget all but my pain
and weakness, and they were not so bad as are suffered in other diseases."
"You
were very young then?"
"I
dare say; let us talk no more of it. You would not wound a friend?" She
looked languidly in my eyes, and passed her arm round my waist lovingly, and
led me out of the room. My father was busy over some papers near the window.
"Why
does your papa like to frighten us?" said the pretty girl, with a sigh and
a little shudder.
"He
doesn't, dear Carmilla, it is the very furthest thing from his mind."
"Are
you afraid, dearest?"
"I
should be very much if I fancied there was any real danger of my being attacked
as those poor people were."
"You
are afraid to die?"
"Yes,
every one is."
"But
to die as lovers may—to die together, so that they may live together. Girls are
caterpillars while they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the
summer comes; but in the meantime there are grubs and larvae, don't you
see—each with their peculiar propensities, necessities and structure. So says
Monsieur Buffon, in his big book, in the next room."
Later
in the day the doctor came, and was closeted with papa for some time. He was a
skilful man, of sixty and upwards, he wore powder, and shaved his pale face as
smooth as a pumpkin. He and papa emerged from the room together, and I heard
papa laugh, and say as they came out:
"Well,
I do wonder at a wise man like you. What do you say to hippogriffs and
dragons?"
The
doctor was smiling, and made answer, shaking his head—
"Nevertheless
life and death are mysterious states, and we know little of the resources of
either."
And
so they walked on, and I heard no more. I did not then know what the doctor had
been broaching, but I think I guess it now.
CHAPTER 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 coresponding numbers. I don't know that the pictures were very good, but
they were, undoubtedly, very old, and some of them very curious also. They had,
for the most part, the merit of being now seen by me, I may say, for the first
time; for the smoke and dust of time had all but obliterated them.
"There
is a picture that I have not seen yet," said my father. "In one
corner, at the top of it, is the name, as well as I could read, 'Marcia Karnstein,'
and the date '1698;' and I am curious to see how it has turned out."
I
remembered it; it was a small picture, about a foot and a half high, and nearly
square, without a frame; but it was so blackened by age that I could not make
it out.
The
artist now produced it, with evident pride. It was quite beautiful; it was
startling; it seemed to live. It was the effigy of Carmilla!
"Carmilla,
dear, here is an absolute miracle. Here you are, living, smiling, ready to
speak, in this picture. Isn't it beautiful, papa? And see, even the little mole
on her throat."
My
father laughed, and said "Certainly it is a wonderful likeness," but
he looked away, and to my surprise seemed but little struck by it, and went on
talking to the picture cleaner, who was also something of an artist, and
discoursed with intelligence about the portraits or other works, which his art
had just brought into light and colour, while I was more and more lost in
wonder the more I looked at the picture.
"Will
you let me hang this picture in my room, papa?" I asked.
"Certainly,
dear," said he, smiling, "I'm very glad you think it so like. It must
be prettier even than I thought it, if it is."
The
young lady did not acknowledge this pretty speech, did not seem to hear it. She
was leaning back in her seat, her fine eyes under their long lashes gazing on
me in contemplation, and she smiled in a kind of rapture.
"And
now you can read quite plainly the name that is written in the corner. It is
not Marcia; it looks as if it was done in gold. The name is Mircalla, Countess
Karnstein, and this is a little coronet over it, and underneath a.d. 1698. I am
descended from the Karnsteins; that is, mamma was."
"Ah!"
said the lady, languidly, "so am I, I think, a very long descent, very
ancient. Are there any Karnsteins living now?"
"None
who bear the name, I believe. The family were ruined, I believe, in some civil
wars, long ago, but the ruins of the castle are only about three miles
away."
"How
interesting!" she said, languidly. "But see what beautiful moonlight!"
She glanced through the hall-door, which stood a little open. "Suppose you
take a little ramble round the court, and look down at the road and
river."
"It
is so like the night you came to us," I said.
She
sighed, smiling.
She
rose, and each with her arm about the other's waist, we walked out upon the
pavement.
In
silence, slowly we walked down to the drawbridge, where the beautiful landscape
opened before us.
"And
so you were thinking of the night I came here?" she almost whispered.
"Are you glad I came?"
"Delighted,
dear Carmilla," I answered.
"And
you asked for the picture you think like me, to hang in your room," she
murmured with a sigh, as she drew her arm closer about my waist, and let her
pretty head sink upon my shoulder.
"How
romantic you are, Carmilla," I said. "Whenever you tell me your
story, it will be made up chiefly of some one great romance."
She
kissed me silently.
"I
am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an
affair of the heart going on."
"I
have been in love with no one, and never shall," she whispered,
"unless it should be with you."
How
beautiful she looked in the moonlight!"
Shy
and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and
hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a
hand that trembled.
Her
soft cheek was glowing against mine.
"Darling,
darling," she murmured, "I live in you; and you would die for me, I
love you so."
I
started from her.
She
was gazing on me with eyes from which all fire, all meaning had flown, and a
face colourless and apathetic.
"Is
there a chill in the air, dear?" she said drowsily. "I almost shiver;
have I been dreaming? Let us come in. Come; come; come in."
"You
look ill, Carmilla; a little faint. You certainly must take some wine," I
said.
"Yes,
I will. I'm better now. I shall be quite well in a few minutes. Yes, do give me
a little wine," answered Carmilla, as we approached the door. "Let us
look again for a moment; it is the last time, perhaps, I shall see the moonlight
with you."
"How
do you feel now, dear Carmilla? Are you really better?" I asked.
I
was beginning to take alarm, lest she should have been stricken with the
strange epidemic that they said had invaded the country about us.
"Papa
would be grieved beyond measure," I added, "if he thought you were
ever so little ill, without immediately letting us know. We have a very skilful
doctor near this, the physician who was with papa to-day."
"I'm
sure he is. I know how kind you all are; but, dear child, I am quite well
again. There is nothing ever wrong with me, but a little weakness. People say I
am languid; I am incapable of exertion; I can scarcely walk as far as a child
of three years old; and every now and then the little strength I have falters,
and I become as you have just seen me. But after all I am very easily set up
again; in a moment I am perfectly myself. See how I have recovered."
So,
indeed, she had; and she and I talked a great deal, and very animated she was;
and the remainder of that evening passed without any recurrence of what I
called her infatuations. I mean her crazy talk and looks, which embarrassed,
and even frightened me.
But
there occurred that night an event which gave my thoughts quite a new turn, and
seemed to startle even Carmilla's languid nature into momentary energy.
CHAPTER 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
to-morrow, and post in pursuit of her; I know where I shall ultimately find
her, although I dare not yet tell you,"
"But
you must not dream of any such thing," exclaimed my father, to my great
relief. "We can't afford to lose you so, and I won't consent to your
leaving us, except under the care of your mother, who was so good as to consent
to your remaining with us till she should herself return. I should be quite
happy if I knew that you heard from her; but this evening the accounts of the
progress of the mysterious disease that has invaded our neighbourhood, grow
even more alarming; and my beautiful guest, I do feel the responsibility,
unaided by advice from your mother, very much. But I shall do my best; and one
thing is certain, that you must not think of leaving us without her distinct
direction to that effect. We should suffer too much in parting from you to
consent to it easily."
"Thank
you, sir, a thousand times for your hospitality," she answered, smiling
bashfully. "You have all been too kind to me; I have seldom been so happy
in all my life before, as in your beautiful château, under your care, and in
the society of your dear daughter."
So
he gallantly, in his old-fashioned way, kissed her hand, smiling and pleased at
her little speech.
I
accompanied Carmilla as usual to her room, and sat and chatted with her while
she was preparing for bed.
"Do
you think," I said at length, "that you will ever confide fully in
me?"
She
turned round smiling, but made no answer, only continued to smile on me.
"You
won't answer that?" I said. "You can't answer pleasantly; I ought not
to have asked you."
"You
were quite right to ask me that, or anything. You do not know how dear you are
to me, or you could not think any confidence too great to look for. But I am
under vows, no nun half so awfully, and I dare not tell my story yet, even to
you. The time is very near when you shall know everything. You will think me
cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish; the more ardent the more
selfish. How jealous I am you cannot know. You must come with me, loving me, to
death; or else hate me and still come with me, and hating me through death and
after. There is no such word as indifference in my apathetic nature."
"Now,
Carmilla, you are going to talk your wild nonsense again," I said hastily.
"Not
I, silly little fool as I am, and full of whims and fancies; for your sake I'll
talk like a sage. Were you ever at a ball?"
"No;
how you do run on. What is it like? How charming it must be."
"I
almost forget, it is years ago." I laughed.
"You
are not so old. Your first ball can hardly be forgotten yet."
"I
remember everything about it—with an effort. I see it all, as divers see what
is going on above them, through a medium, dense, rippling, but transparent.
There occurred that night what has confused the picture, and made its colours
faint. I was all but assassinated in my bed, wounded here," she touched
her breast, "and never was the same since."
"Were
you near dying?"
"Yes,
very—a cruel love—strange love, that would have taken my life. Love will have
its sacrifices. No sacrifice without blood. Let us go to sleep now; I feel so
lazy. How can I get up just now and lock my door?"
She
was lying with her tiny hands buried in her rich wavy hair, under her cheek,
her little head upon the pillow, and her glittering eyes followed me wherever I
moved, with a kind of shy smile that I could not decipher.
I
bid her good-night, and crept from the room with an uncomfortable sensation.
I
often wondered whether our pretty guest ever said her prayers. I certainly had
never seen her upon her knees. In the morning she never came down until long
after our family prayers were over, and at night she never left the
drawing-room to attend our brief evening prayers in the hall.
If
it had not been that it had casually come out in one of our careless talks that
she had been baptised, I should have doubted her being a Christian. Religion
was a subject on which I had never heard her speak a word. If I had known the
world better, this particular neglect or antipathy would not have so much
surprised me.
The
precautions of nervous people are infectious, and persons of a like temperament
are pretty sure, after a time, to imitate them. I had adopted Carmilla's habit
of locking her bed-room door, having taken into my head all her whimsical
alarms about midnight invaders and prowling assassins. I had also adopted her
precaution of making a brief search through her room, to satisfy herself that
no lurking assassin or robber was "ensconced."
These
wise measures taken, I got into my bed and fell asleep. A light was burning in
my room. This was an old habit, of very early date, and which nothing could
have tempted me to dispense with.
Thus
fortified I might take my rest in peace. But dreams come through stone walls,
light up dark rooms, or darken light ones, and their persons make their exits
and their entrances as they please, and laugh at locksmiths.
I
had a dream that night that was the beginning of a very strange agony.
I
cannot call it a nightmare, for I was quite conscious of being asleep. But I
was equally conscious of being in my room, and lying in bed, precisely as I
actually was. I saw, or fancied I saw, the room and its furniture just as I had
seen it last, except that it was very dark, and I saw something moving round
the foot of the bed, which at first I could not accurately distinguish. But I
soon saw that it was a sooty-black animal that resembled a monstrous cat. It
appeared to me about four or five feet long, for it measured fully the length
of the hearth-rug as it passed over it; and it continued toing and froing with
the lithe sinister restlessness of a beast in a cage. I could not cry out,
although as you may suppose, I was terrified. Its pace was growing faster, and
the room rapidly darker and darker, and at length so dark that I could no
longer see anything of it but its eyes. I felt it spring lightly on the bed.
The two broad eyes approached my face, and suddenly I felt a stinging pain as
if two large needles darted, an inch or two apart, deep into my breast. I waked
with a scream. The room was lighted by the candle that burnt there all through
the night, and I saw a female figure standing at the foot of the bed, a little
at the right side. It was in a dark loose dress, and its hair was down and
covered its shoulders. A block of stone could not have been more still. There
was not the slightest stir of respiration. As I stared at it, the figure
appeared to have changed its place, and was now nearer the door; then, close to
it, the door opened, and it passed out.
I
was now relieved, and able to breathe and move. My first thought was that
Carmilla had been playing me a trick, and that I had forgotten to secure my
door. I hastened to it, and found it locked as usual on the inside. I was
afraid to open it— I was horrified. I sprang into my bed and covered my head up
in the bed-clothes, and lay there more dead than alive till morning.
