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In a Glajs Qarkly,
BY
J. SHERIDAN LE FANU,
A U T H o R o F “ U N c L E S I L A s,” & c.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
L O N DO N : -
R. BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1872.
The right of translation is reserved.


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CHAPTER XXIV.
HOPE.
HE had scarcely set down my heavy
box, which she seemed to have con-
siderable difficulty in raising on the table,
when the door of the room in which I had
seen the coffin, opened, and a sinister and
unexpected apparition entered.
It was the Count de St. Alyre, who had
been, as I have told you, reported to me to
be, for some considerable time, on his way to
Père la Chaise. He stood before me for a
moment, with the frame of the doorway and

B 2.


4- IN A GLASS DARKLY.
*
a background of darkness enclosing him, like
a portrait. His slight, mean figure was
draped in the deepest mourning. He had a
pair of black gloves in his hand, and his hat
with crape round it.
When he was not speaking his face showed
signs of agitation; his mouth was puckering
and working. He looked damnably wicked
and frightened.
“Well, my dear Eugenie? Well, child—
eh? Well, it all goes admirably?”
“Yes,” she answered, in a low, hard tone.
“But you and Planard should not have left
that door open.”
This she said sternly. “He went in there
and looked about wherever he liked ; it was
fortunate he did not move aside the lid of
the coffin.”
“Planard should have seen to that,” said
the Count, sharply. “Ma foi! I can’t be
everywhere!” He advanced half-a-dozen


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 5
short quick steps into the room toward me,
and placed his glasses to his eyes.
“Monsieur Beckett,” he cried sharply,
two or three times, “Hi! don't you know
me?”
He approached and peered more closely in
my face; raised my hand and shook it,
calling me again, then let it drop, and said
—“It has set in admirably, my pretty
mignonne. When did it commence?”
The Countess came and stood beside him,
and looked at me steadily for some seconds.
You can’t conceive the effect of the silent
gaze of those two pairs of evil eyes.
The lady glanced to where, I recollected,
the mantel-piece stood, and upon it a clock,
the regular click of which I sharply
heard.
“Four—five—six minutes and a half,” she
said slowly, in a cold hard way.
“Brava ! Bravissima ! my beautiful queen!


6 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
my little Venus ! my Joan of Arc my
heroine ! my paragon of women "
He was gloating on me with an odious
curiosity, smiling, as he groped backward
with his thin brown fingers to find the lady's
hand; but she, not (I dare say) caring for
his caresses, drew back a little.
“Come, ma chère, let us count these
things. What is it? Pocket-book? Or—
or—what ?”
“It is that l” said the lady, pointing with
a look of disgust to the box, which lay in its
leather case on the table.
“Oh ! Let us see—let us count—let us
see,” he said, as he was unbuckling the
straps with his tremulous fingers. “We
must count them—we must see to it. I have
pencil and pocket-book—but—where's the
key See this cursed lock! My !
What is it? Where's the key?
He was standing before the Countess,


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 7
shuffling his feet, with his hands extended
and all his fingers quivering.
“I have not got it; how could I? It is
in his pocket, of course,” said the lady.
In another instant the fingers of the old
miscreant were in my pockets: he plucked
out everything they contained, and some
keys among the rest.
I lay in precisely the state in which I had
been during my drive with the Marquis to
Paris. This wretch I knew was about to
rob me. The whole drama, and the
Countess's rôle in it, I could not yet com-
prehend. I could not be sure—so much
more presence of mind and histrionic resource
have women than fall to the lot of our
clumsy sex-—whether the return of the Count
was not, in truth, a surprise to her; and
this scrutiny of the contents of my strong
box, an extempore undertaking of the
Count's. But it was clearing more and more


8 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
every moment: and I was destined, very soon,
to comprehend minutely my appalling situa-
tion.
I had not the power of turning my eyes
this way or that, the smallest fraction of a
hair's breadth. But let any one, placed as I
was at the end of a room, ascertain for him-
self by experiment how wide is the field of
sight, without the slightest alteration in the
line of vision, he will find that it takes in
the entire breadth of a large room, and that
up to a very short distance before him; and
imperfectly, by a refraction, I believe, in
the eye itself, to a point very near indeed.
Next to nothing that passed in the room,
therefore, was hidden from me.
The old man had, by this time, found the
key. The leather case was open. The box
cramped round with iron, was next unlocked.
He turned out its contents upon the table.
“Rouleaux of a hundred Napoleons each.


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 9
One, two, three. Yes, quick. Write down
a thousand Napoleons. One, two; yes, right.
Another thousand, write l’ And so, on and
on till till gold was rapidly counted. Then
came the notes.
“Ten thousand francs. Write. Ten thou-
sand francs again: is it written? Another
ten thousand francs: is it down? Smaller
notes would have been better. They should
have been smaller. These are horribly em-
barrassing. Bolt that door again; Planard
would become unreasonable if he knew the
amount. Why did you not tell him to get
it in smaller notes? No matter now—go
on—it can’t be helped—write—another ten
thousand francs—another—another.” And
so on, till my treasure was counted out,
before my face, while I saw and heard all
that passed with the sharpest distinctness, and
my mental perceptions were horribly vivid.
But in all other respects I was dead.


IO IN A GLASS DARKLY.
He had replaced in the box every note
and rouleau as he counted it, and now having
ascertained the sum total, he locked it, re-
placed it, very methodically, in its cover,
opened a buffet in the wainscoting, and, hav-
ing placed the Countess' jewel-case and my
strong box in it, he locked it; and imme-
diately on completing these arrangements he
began to complain, with fresh acrimony and
maledictions of Planard's delay.
He unbolted the door, looked in the dark
room beyond, and listened. He closed the
door again, and returned. The old man was
in a fever of suspense.
“I have kept ten thousand francs for Pla-
nard,” said the Count, touching his waistcoat
pocket.
“Will that satisfy him?” asked the lady.
“Why—curse him 1" screamed the Count.
“Has he no conscience? I'll swear to him
it's half the entire thing.”


THE DRAGON VOLANT. I 1
He and the lady again came and looked at
me anxiously for awhile, in silence; and then
the old Count began to grumble again about
Planard, and to compare his watch with the
clock. The lady seemed less impatient; she
sat no longer looking at me, but across the
room, so that her profile was toward me—
and strangely changed, dark and witch-like it
looked. My last hope died as I beheld that
jaded face from which the mask had dropped.
I was certain that they intended to crown
their robbery by murder. Why did they not
despatch me at once What object could
there be in postponing the catastrophe which
would expedite their own safety. I cannot
recall, even to myself, adequately the horrors
unutterable that I underwent. You must
suppose a real night-mare—I mean a night-
mare in which the objects and the danger are
real, and the spell of corporal death appears
to be protractable at the pleasure of the


12 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
persons who preside at your unearthly tor-
ments. I could have no doubt as to the cause
of the state in which I was.
In this agony, to which I could not give
the slightest expression, I saw the door of
the room where the coffin had been, open
slowly, and the Marquis d'Harmonville en-
tered the room.


CHAPTER XXV.
DES PAIR.
MOMENT'S hope, hope violent and
fluctuating, hope that was nearly
torture, and then came a dialogue, and with
it the terrors of despair.
“Thank heaven, Planard, you have come
at last,” said the Count, taking him, with
both hands, by the arm and clinging to it,
and drawing him toward me. “See, look at
him. It has all gone sweetly, sweetly, sweetly
up to this. Shall I hold the candle for
you?”


I4. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
My friend d'Harmonville, Planard, what-
ever he was, came to me, pulling off
his gloves, which he popped into his
pocket.
“The candle, a little this way,” he said,
and stooping over me he looked earnestly
in my face. He touched my forehead, drew
his hand across it, and then looked in my
eyes for a time.
“Well, doctor, what do you think?” whis-
pered the Count.
“How much did you give him?” said the
Marquis, thus suddenly stunted down to a
doctor.
“Seventy drops,” said the lady.
“In the hot coffee?”
“Yes; sixty in a hot cup of coffee and ten
in the liqueur."
Her voice, low and hard, seemed to me to
tremble a little. It takes a long course of
guilt to subjugate nature completely, and pre-


THE DRAGON VOLANT. I 5
vent those exterior signs of agitation that
outlive all good.
The doctor, however, was treating me as
coolly as he might a subject which he was
about to place on the dissecting-table for a
lecture.
He looked into my eyes again for awhile,
took my wrist, and applied his fingers to the
pulse.
“That action suspended,” he said to him-
self. -
Then again he placed something that, for
the moment I saw it, looked like a piece of
gold-beater's leaf, to my lips, holding his
head so far that his own breathing could not
affect it.
“Yes,” he said in soliloquy, very low.
Then he plucked my shirt-breast open and
applied the stethoscope, shifted it from point
to point, listened with his ear to its end, as
if for a very far off sound, raised his head,


16 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
and said, in like manner, softly to himself,
“All appreciable action of the lungs has sub-
sided.”
Then turning from the sound, as I conjec-
tured, he said: - -
“Seventy drops, allowing ten for waste,
ought to hold him fast for six hours and
a-half—that is ample. The experiment I
tried in the carriage was only thirty drops,
and showed a highly sensitive brain. It
would not do to kill him, you know. You
are certain you did not exceed seventy *
“Perfectly,” said the lady.
“If he were to die the evaporation would
be arrested, and foreign matter, some of it
poisonous, would be found in the stomach,
don't you see? If you are doubtful,
it would be well to use the stomach-
pump.” -
“Dearest Eugenie, be frank, be frank, do
be frank,” urged the Count.


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 17
“I am not doubtful, I am certain,” she
answered. -
“How long ago, exactly? I told you to
observe the time.”
“I did; the minute-hand was exactly there,
under the point of that Cupid's foot.”
“It will last, then, probably for seven
hours. He will recover then; the evapora-
tion will be complete, and not one particle
of the fluid will remain in the stomach.”
It was reassuring, at all events, to hear
that there was no intention to murder me.
No one who has not tried it knows the terror
of the approach of death, when the mind is
clear, the instincts of life unimpaired, and
no excitement to disturb the appreciation of
that entirely new horror.
The nature and purpose of this tenderness
was very, very peculiar, and as yet I had not
a suspicion of it.
VOL. III. C


18 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“You leave France, I suppose?” said the
ex-Marquis.
“Yes, certainly, to-morrow,” answered
the Count.
“And where do you mean to go?”
“That I have not yet settled,” he answered
quickly.
“You won’t tell a friend, eh?”
“I can’t till I know. This has turned out
an unprofitable affair.”
“We shall settle that by-and-by.”
“It is time we should get him lying down,
eh?” said the Count, indicating me with one
finger.
“Yes, we must proceed rapidly now.
Are his night-shirt and night-cap—you under-
stand—here?”
“All ready,” said the Count.
“Now, Madame,” said the doctor, turning
to the lady, and making her, in spite of the


THE DRAGON VOLANT. I 9
emergency, a bow, “it is time you should
retire.”
The lady passed into the room, in which
I had taken my cup of treacherous coffee,
and I saw her no more.
The Count took a candle, and passed
through the door at the further end of the
room, returning with a roll of linen in his
hand. He bolted first one door, then the
other. -
They now, in silence, proceeded to un-
dress me rapidly. They were not many
minutes in accomplishing this.
What the doctor had termed my night-
shirt, a long garment which reached below
my feet, was now on, and a cap, that re-
sembled a female nightcap more than any-
thing I had ever seen upon a male head,
was fitted upon mine, and tied under my
chin.
And now, I thought, I shall be laid in a
C 2.


2 O IN A GLASS DARKLY.
bed, to recover how I can, and, in the
meantime, the conspirators will have es-
caped with their booty, and pursuit be in
vain.
This was my best hope at the time; but
it was soon clear that their plans were very
different.
The Count and Planard now went, to-
gether, into the room that lay straight before
me. I heard them talking low, and a sound
of shuffling feet; then a long rumble; it
suddenly stopped; it recommenced; it con-
tinued; side by side they came in at the
door, their backs toward me. They were
dragging something along the floor that
made a continued boom and rumble, but
they interposed between me and it, so that
I could not see it until they had dragged
it almost beside me; and then, merciful
heaven! I saw it plainly enough. It was the
coffin I had seen in the next room. It lay


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 2. I
now flat on the floor, its edge against the
chair in which I sat. Planard removed the
lid. The coffin was empty.


CHAPTER XXVI.
CATASTROPHE.
cC. HOSE seem to be good horses, and
we change on the way,” said Planard.
“You give the men a Napoleon or two;
we must do it within three hours and a
quarter. Now, come; I'll lift him, upright,
so as to place his feet in their proper berth,
and you must keep them together, and draw
the white shirt well down over them.”
In another moment I was placed, as he
described, sustained in Planard's arms, stand-
ing at the foot of the coffin, and so lowered


THE DRAGON voláNT. 23
backward, gradually, till I lay my length in
it. Then the man, whom he called Planard,
stretched my arms by my sides, and care-
fully arranged the frills at my breast, and
the folds of the shroud, and after that,
taking his stand at the foot of the coffin,
made a survey which seemed to satisfy
him.
The Count, who was very methodical,
took my clothes, which had just been re-
moved, folded them rapidly together and
locked them up, as I afterwards heard, in
one of the three presses which opened by
doors in the panel.
I now understood their frightful plan. This
coffin had been prepared for me; the funeral of
St. Amand was a sham to mislead inquiry; I
had myself given the order at Père la Chaise,
signed it, and paid the fees for the interment
of the fictitious Pierre de St. Amand, whose
place I was to take, to lie in his coffin, with


24. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
his name on the plate above my breast, and
with a ton of clay packed down upon me;
to waken from this catalepsy, after I had
been for hours in the grave, there to perish
by a death the most horrible that imagination
can conceive.
If, hereafter, by any caprice of curiosity or
suspicion, the coffin should be exhumed, and
the body it enclosed examined, no chemistry
could detect a trace of poison, nor the most
cautious examination the slightest mark of
violence.
I had myself been at the utmost pains to
mystify inquiry, should my disappearance
excite surmises, and had even written to my
few correspondents in England to tell them
that they were not to look for a letter from
me for three weeks at least.
In the moment of my guilty elation death
had caught me, and there was no escape. I
tried to pray to God in my unearthly panic,


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 25
but only thoughts of terror, judgment, and
eternal anguish, crossed the distraction of my
immediate doom.
I must not try to recall what is indeed in-
describable—the multiform horrors of my
own thoughts. I will relate, simply, what
befell, every detail of which remains sharp in
my memory as if cut in steel.
“The undertaker's men are in the hall,”
said the Count. •
“They must not come till this is fixed,”
answered Planard. “Be good enough to
take hold of the lower part while I take this
end.” I was not left long to conjecture what
was coming, for in a few seconds more some-
thing slid across, a few inches above my face,
and entirely excluded the light, and muffled
sound, so that nothing that was not very
distinct reached my ears henceforward; but
very distinctly came the working of a turn-
screw, and the crunching home of screws in


26 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
succession. Than these vulgar sounds, no
doom spoken in thunder could have been
more tremendous.
The rest I must relate, not as it then
reached my ears, which was too imperfectly
and interruptedly to supply a connected
narrative, but as it was afterwards told me
by other people.
The coffin-lid being screwed down, the
two gentlemen arranged the room, and ad-
justed the coffin so that it lay perfectly
straight along the boards, the Count being
specially anxious that there should be no
appearance of hurry or disorder in the room,
which might have suggested remark and
conjecture.
When this was done, Doctor Planard said
he would go to the hall to summon the men
who were to carry the coffin out and place it
in the hearse. The Count pulled on his
black gloves, and held his white handkerchief


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 27
in his hand, a very impressive chief-mourner.
He stood a little behind the head of the
coffin, awaiting the arrival of the persons
who accompanied Planard, and whose fast
steps he soon heard approaching.
Planard came first. He entered the room
through the apartment in which the coffin
had been originally placed. His manner was
changed; there was something of a swagger
in it.
“Monsieur le Comte,” he said, as he
strode through the door, followed by half-a-
dozen persons. “I am sorry to have to
announce to you a most unseasonable inter-
ruption. Here is Monsieur Carmaignac, a
gentleman holding an office in the police
department, who says that information to the
effect that large quantities of smuggled English
and other goods have been distributed in this
neighbourhood, and that a portion of them
is concealed in your house. I have ventured


28 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
to assure him, of my own knowledge, that
nothing can be more false than that informa-
tion, and that you would be only too happy
to throw open for his inspection, at a moment's
notice, every room, closet, and cupboard in
your house.”
“Most assuredly,” exclaimed the Count,
with a stout voice, but a very white face.
“Thank you, my good friend, for having
anticipated me. I will place my house and
keys at his disposal, for the purpose of his
scrutiny, so soon as he is good enough to
inform me, of what specific contraband goods
he comes in search.”
“The Count de St. Alyre will pardon me,”
answered Carmaignac, a little dryly. “I am
forbidden by my instructions to make that
disclosure ; and that I am instructed to make
a general search, this warrant will sufficiently
apprise Monsieur le Comte.”
“Monsieur Carmaignac, may I hope,”


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 29
interposed Planard, “that you will permit .
the Count de St. Alyre to attend the funeral
of his kinsman, who lies here, as you see—”
(he pointed to the plate upon the coffin)—
“ and to convey whom to Père la Chaise, a
hearse waits at this moment at the door.”
“That, I regret to say, I cannot permit.
My instructions are precise; but the delay,
I trust, will be but trifling. Monsieur le
Comte will not suppose for a moment that
I suspect him; but we have a duty to per-
form, and I must act as if I did. When I am
ordered to search, I search; things are some-
times hid in such bizarre places. I can’t say,
for instance, what that coffin may contain.”
“The body of my kinsman, Monsieur
Pierre de St. Amand,” answered the Count,
loftily.
“Oh! then you've seen him?”
“Seen him? Often, too often ?” The
Count was evidently a good deal moved.


3o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“I mean the body?”
The Count stole a quick glance at Planard.
“N—no, Monsieur—that is, I mean only
for a moment.” Another quick glance at
Planard.
“But quite long enough, I fancy, to re-
cognize him?” insinuated that gentleman.
“Of course — of course; instantly—per-
fectly. What! Pierre de St. Amand? Not
know him at a glance No, no, poor fellow, I
know him too well for that.”
“The things I am in search of,” said
Monsieur Carmaignac, “would fit in a narrow
compass—servants are so ingenious sometimes.
Let us raise the lid.”
“Pardon me, Monsieur,” said the Count,
peremptorily, advancing to the side of the
coffin, and extending his arm across it. “I can-
not permit that indignity—that desecration.”
“There shall be none, sir, – simply the
raising of the lid; you shall remain in the


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 3 I
room. If it should prove as we all hope, you
shall have the pleasure of one other look,
really the last, upon your beloved kinsman.”
“But, sir, I can't.”
“But, Monsieur, I must.”
“But, besides, the thing, the turnscrew,
broke when the last screw was turned ; and I
give you my sacred honour there is nothing
but the body in this coffin.”
“Of course Monsieur le Comte believes all
that ; but he does not know so well as I the
legerdemain in use among servants, who are
accustomed to smuggling. Here, Philippe,
you must take off the lid of that coffin.”
The Count protested ; but Philippe—a
man with a bald head, and a smirched face,
looking like a working blacksmith—placed
on the floor a leather bag of tools, from which,
having looked at the coffin, and picked with
his nail at the screw-heads, he selected a turn-
screw, and, with a few deft twirls at each of


32 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
the screws, they stood up like little rows of
mushrooms, and the lid was raised. I saw
the light, of which I thought I had seen my
last, once more; but the axis of vision re-
mained fixed. As I was reduced to the cata-
leptic state in a position nearly perpendicular, I
continued looking straight before me, and thus
my gaze was now fixed upon the ceiling. I saw
the face of Carmaignac leaning over me with
a curious frown. It seemed to me that there
was no recognition in his eyes. Oh, heaven
that I could have uttered were it but one cry!
I saw the dark, mean mask of the little Count
staring down at me from the other side; the
face of the pseudo-marquis also peering at
me, but not so full in the line of vision;
there were other faces also.
“I see, I see,” said Carmaignac, withdraw-
ing. “Nothing of the kind there.”
“You will be good enough to direct your
man to re-adjust the lid of the coffin, and to


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 33
fix the screws,” said the Count, taking cou-
rage; “and—and—really the funeral must
proceed. It is not fair to the people who
have but moderate fees for night-work, to
keep them hour after hour beyond the time.”
“Count de St. Alyre, you shall go in a
very few minutes. I will direct, just now, all
about the coffin.”
The Count looked toward the door, and
there saw a gendarme; and two or three more
grave and stalwart specimens of the same force
were also in the room. The Count was very
uncomfortably excited; it. was growing in-
supportable.
“As this gentleman makes a difficulty
about my attending the obsequies of my kins-
man, I will ask you, Planard, to accompany
the funeral in my stead.”
“In a few minutes,” answered the incor-
rigible Carmaignac. “I must first trouble
you for the key that opens that press.”
VOL. III. D


34. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
He pointed direct at the press, in which
the clothes had just been locked up.
“I—I have no objection,” said the Count
—“none, of course; only they have not
been used for an age. I'll direct some one
to look for the key.”
“If you have not got it about you, it
is quite unnecessary. Philippe, try your
skeleton-keys with that press. I want it
opened. Whose clothes are these ?” inquired
Carmaignac when, the press having been
opened, he took out the suit that had been
placed there scarcely two minutes since.
“I can't say,” answered the Count. “I
know nothing of the contents of that press.
A roguish servant, named Lablais, whom I
dismissed about a year ago, had the key. I
have not seen it open for ten years or more.
The clothes are probably his.
“Here are visiting cards, see, and here a
marked pocket-handkerchief—‘R.B.' upon it.


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 35
He musthave stolen them from a person named
Beckett—R. Beckett. “Mr. Beckett, Berkley
Square, the card says; and, my faith ! here's
a watch and a bunch of seals; one of them
with the initials ‘R.B. upon it. That ser-
vant, Lablais, must have been a consummate
rogue !”
“So he was; you are right, sir.”
“It strikes me that he possibly stole these
clothes,” continued Carmaignac, “from the
man in the coffin, who, in that case, would
be Monsieur Beckett, and not Monsieur de
St. Amand. For, wonderful to relate, Mon-
sieur, the watch is still going! That man in
the coffin, I believe, is not dead, but simply
drugged. And for having robbed and in-
tended to murder him, I arrest you, Nicolas
de la Marque, Count de St. Alyre.”
In another moment the old villain was a
prisoner. I heard his discordant voice break
quaveringly into sudden vehemence and volu-
D 2,


36 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
bility; now croaking—now shrieking, as he
oscillated between protests, threats, and im-
pious appeals to the God who will “judge
the secrets of men " And thus lying and
raving, he was removed from the room, and
placed in the same coach with his beautiful
and abandoned accomplice, already arrested;
and, with two gendarmes sitting beside them,
they were immediately driving at a rapid
pace towards the Conciergerie.
There were now added to the general
chorus two voices, very different in quality;
one was that of the gasconading Colonel
Gaillarde, who had with difficulty been kept
in the background up to this; the other was
that of my jolly friend Whistlewick, who had
come to identify me.
I shall tell you, just now, how this project
against my property and life, so ingenious
and monstrous, was exploded. I must first
say a word about myself. I was placed in a


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 37
hot bath, under the direction of Planard, as
consummate a villain as any of the gang, but
now thoroughly in the interests of the prose-
cution. Thence I was laid in a warm bed,
the window of the room being open. These
simple measures restored me in about three
hours; I should otherwise, probably, have
continued under the spell for nearly seven.
The practices of these nefarious conspira-
tors had been carried on with consummate
skill and secrecy. Their dupes were led, as I
was, to be themselves auxiliary to the
mystery which made their own destruction
both safe and certain.
A search was, of course, instituted. Graves
were opened in Père la Chaise. The bodies
exhumed had lain there too long, and were
too much decomposed to be recognized.
One only was identified. The notice for the
burial, in this particular case, had been
signed, the order given, and the fees paid,


38 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
by Gabriel Gaillarde, who was known to the
official clerk, who had to transact with him
this little funereal business. The very trick,
that had been arranged for me, had been
successfully practised in his case. The person
for whom the grave had been ordered, was
purely fictitious; and Gabriel Gaillarde him-
self filled the coffin, on the cover of which
that false name was inscribed as well as upon
a tomb-stone over the grave. Possibly, the
same honour, under my pseudonym, may
have been intended for me.
The identification was curious. This
Gabriel Gaillarde had had a bad fall from a
run-away horse, about five years before his
mysterious disappearance. He had lost an
eye and some teeth, in this accident, besides
sustaining a fracture of the right leg, imme-
diately above the ankle. He had kept the
injuries to his face as profound a secret as he
could. The result was, that the glass eye


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 39
which had done duty for the one he had lost,
remained in the socket, slightly displaced, of
course, but recognizable by the “artist” who
had supplied it.
More pointedly recognizable were the
teeth, peculiar in workmanship, which one of
the ablest dentists in Paris had himself
adapted to the chasms, the cast of which,
owing to peculiarities in the accident, he hap-
pened to have preserved. This cast precisely
fitted the gold plate found in the mouth of
the skull. The mark, also, above the ankle,
in the bone, where it had re-united, corre-
sponded exactly with the place where the
fracture had knit in the limb of Gabriel
Gaillarde.
The Colonel, his younger brother, had
been furious about the disappearance of
Gabriel, and still more so about that of his
money, which he had long regarded as his
proper keepsake, whenever death should re-


4o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
move his brother from the vexations of
living. He had suspected for a long time,
for certain adroitly discovered reasons, that
the Count de St. Alyre and the beautiful lady,
his companion, countess, or whatever else she
was, had pigeoned him. To this suspicion
were added some others of a still darker kind;
but in their first shape, rather the exaggerated
reflections of his fury, ready to believe any-
thing, than well-defined conjectures.
At length an accident had placed the
Colonel very nearly upon the right scent; a
chance, possibly lucky for himself, had ap-
prized the scoundrel Planard that the con-
spirators—himself among the number—were
in danger. The result was that he made
terms for himself, became an informer, and
concerted with the police this visit made to
the Château de la Carque, at the critical
moment when every measure had been
completed that was necessary to construct


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 4. I
a perfect case against his guilty accom-
plices.
I need not describe the minute industry or
forethought with which the police agents col-
lected all the details necessary to support the
case. They had brought an able physician,
who, even had Planard failed, would have
supplied the necessary medical evidence.
My trip to Paris, you will believe, had not
turned out quite so agreeably as I had antici-
pated. I was the principal witness for the
prosecution in this cause célebre, with all the
agrémens that attend that enviable position.
Having had an escape, as my friend Whistle-
wick said, “with a squeak” for my life, I
innocently fancied that I should have been an
object of considerable interest to Parisian
society; but, a good deal to my mortifica-
tion, I discovered that I was the object of a
good-natured but contemptuous merriment.
I was a balourd, a benét, un dine, and figured


42 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
even in caricatures. I became a sort of public
character, a dignity,
“Unto which I was not born,”
and from which I fled as soon as I conveni-
ently could, without even paying my friend
the Marquis d'Harmonville a visit at his
hospitable château.
The Marquis escaped scot-free. His
accomplice, the Count, was executed. The
fair Eugenie, under extenuating circum-
stances—consisting, so far as I could discover
of her good looks—got off for six years'
imprisonment.
Colonel Gaillarde recovered some of his
brother's money, out of the not very affluent
estate of the Count and soi-disant Countess.
This, and the execution of the Count, put
him in high good humour. So far from in-
sisting on a hostile meeting, he shook me
very graciously by the hand, told me that he


THE DRAGON, VOLANT. 4-3
looked upon the wound on his head, inflicted
by the knob of my stick, as having been
received in an honourable, though irregular
duel, in which he had no disadvantage or
unfairness to complain of
I think I have only two additional details
to mention. The bricks discovered in the
room with the coffin, had been packed in it,
in straw, to supply the weight of a dead
body, and to prevent the suspicions and con-
tradictions that might have been excited by
the arrival of an empty coffin at the
château.
- Secondly, the Countess's magnificent bril-
liants were examined by a lapidary, and pro-
nounced to be worth about five pounds to a
tragedy-queen, who happened to be in want
of a suite of paste.
The Countess had figured some years
before as one of the cleverest actresses on the
minor stage of Paris, where she had been


44 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
picked up by the Count and used as his
principal accomplice. -
She it was who, admirably disguised, ha
rifled my papers in the carriage on my me-
morable night-journey to Paris. She also
had figured as the interpreting magician of
the palanquin at the ball at Versailles. So far
as I was affected by that elaborate mystifica-
tion it was intended to re-animate my interest,
which, they feared, might flag in the beau-
tiful Countess. It had its design and action
upon other intended victims also; but of
them there is, at present, no need to speak.
The introduction of a real corpse-procured
from a person who supplied the Parisian
anatomists—involved no real danger, while it
heightened the mystery and kept the prophet
alive in the gossip of the town and in the
thoughts of the noodles with whom he had
conferred.
I divided the remainder of the summer


THE DRAGON VOLANT. 45
and autumn between Switzerland and Italy.
As the well-worn phrase goes, I was a
sadder if not a wiser man. A great deal of
the horrible impression left upon my mind
was due, of course, to the mere action of
nerves and brain. But serious feelings of
another and deeper kind remained. My
after life was ultimately formed by the shock
I had then received. Those impressions led
me—but not till after many years—to happier
though not less serious thoughts; and I have
deep reason to be thankful to the all-merciful
Ruler of events, for an early and terrible
lesson in the ways of sin.





C A RM ILL A.





P R O L O G U E.
PON a paper attached to the Narra-
U tive 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 conden-
sation. It will form but one volume of the
VOL. III. E


5o - IN A GLASS DARKLY.
series of that extraordinary man's collected
papers. -
As I publish the case, in these volumes,
simply to interest the “laity,” I shall fore-
stal 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 interme-
diates.”
I was anxious, on discovering this paper,
to re-open the correspondence commenced
by Doctor Hesselius, so many years before,
with a person so clever and careful as his
informant seems to have been. Much to
my regret, however, I found that she had
died in the interval. -
She, probably, could have added little to


CARMILLA. 5 I
the Narrative which she communicates in
the following pages, with, so far as I can
pronounce, such a conscientious particula-
rity.


CHAPTER I.
AN EARLY FRIGHT.
N Styria, we, though by no means magnifi-
cent 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 primi-
tive place, where everything is so mar-


CARMILLA. 53
vellously 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 bar-
gain.
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


54. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
picturesque glade before its gate, and at the
right a steep Gothic bridge carries the road
over a stream that winds in deep shadow
through the wood.
I have said that this is a very lonely place.
Judge whether I say truth. Looking from
the hall door towards the road, the forest in
which our castle stands extends fifteen miles
to the right, and twelve to the left. The
nearest inhabited village is about seven of
your English miles to the left. The nearest
inhabited schloss of any historic associations,
is that of old General Spielsdorf, nearly
twenty miles away to the right.
I have said “the nearest inhabited village,”
because there is, only three miles westward,
that is to say in the direction of General
Spielsdorf's schloss, a ruined village, with its
quaint little church, now roofless, in the
aisle of which are the mouldering tombs of
the proud family of Karnstein, now extinct,


CARMILLA. 55
who once owned the equally desolate château
which, in the thick of the forest, overlooks
the silent ruins of the town.
Respecting the cause of the desertion of
this striking and melancholy spot, there is -
a legend which I shall relate to you another
time.
I must tell you now, how very small is
the party who constitute the inhabitants of
our castle. I don’t include servants, or those
dependents who occupy rooms in the build-
ings 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


56 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
time when her fat, benignant face was not a
familiar picture in my memory. This was
Madame Perrodon, a native of Berne, whose
care and good nature in part supplied to me
the loss of my mother, whom I do not even
remember, so early I lost her. She made a
third at our little dinner party. There was
a fourth, Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, a
lady such as you term, I believe, a “finishing
governess.” She spoke French and German,
Madame Perrodon French and broken
English, to which my father and I added
English, which, partly to prevent its be-
coming 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 narra-
tive. And there were two or three young
lady friends besides, pretty nearly of my
own age, who were occasional visitors, for


CARMILLA. 57
longer or shorter terms; and these visits I
sometimes returned.
These were our regular social resources;
but of course there were chance visits from
“neighbours” of only five or six leagues
distance. My life was, notwithstanding,
rather a solitary one, I can assure you.
My gouvernantes had just so much con-
trol 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 inci-
dents of my life which I can recollect. Some
people will think it so trifling that it should
not be recorded here. You will see, how-
ever, by-and-bye, why I mention it. The


58 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 igno-
rance of ghost stories, of fairy tales, and of
all such lore as makes us cover up our heads
when the door creeks suddenly, or the
flicker of an expiring candle makes the
shadow of a bed-post dance upon the wall,
nearer to our faces. I was vexed and in-
sulted at finding myself, as I conceived,
neglected, and I began to whimper, prepara-
tory 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


CARMILLA. 59
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


6o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 cup-
boards; and the housekeeper whispered to
the nurse: “Lay your hand along that hol-
low in the bed; some one did lie there, so
sure as you did not; the place is still
warm.”
I remember the nursery-maid petting me,
and all three examining my chest, where I
told them I felt the puncture, and pronounc-
ing that there was no sign visible that any
such thing had happened to me.
The housekeeper and the two other ser-
vants 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


CARMILLA. 61
and elderly. How well I remember his
long saturnine face, slightly pitted with
small-pox, and his chesnut wig. For a good
while, every second day, he came and gave
me medicine, which of course I hated.
The morning after I saw this apparition I
was in a state of terror, and could not bear
to be left alone, daylight though it was, for
a moment.
I remember my father coming up and
standing at the bedside, and talking cheer-
fully, and asking the nurse a number of
questions, and laughing very heartily at one
of the answers; and patting me on the
shoulder, and kissing me, and telling me
not to be frightened, that it was nothing but
a dream and could not hurt me.
But I was not comforted, for I knew the
visit of the strange woman was not a dream;
and I was awfully frightened.
I was a little consoled by the nursery-


62 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
maid's assuring me that it was she who had
come and looked at me, and lain down beside
me in the bed, and that I must have been
half-dreaming not to have known her face.
But this, though supported by the nurse, did
not quite satisfy me.
I remember, in the course of that day, a
venerable old man, in a black cassock,
coming into the room with the nurse and
housekeeper, and talking a little to them,
and very kindly to me; his face was very
sweet and gentle, and he told me they were
going to pray, and joined my hands together,
and desired me to say, softly, while they
were praying, “Lord hear all good prayers
for us, for Jesus' sake.” I think these were
the very words, for I often repeated them to
myself, and my nurse used for years to make
me say them in my prayers. -
I remember so well the thoughtful sweet
face of that white-haired old man, in his


CARMILLA. 63
black cossack, as he stood in that rude,
lofty, brown room, with the clumsy furniture
of a fashion three hundred years old, about
him, and the scanty light entering its shadowy
atmosphere through the small lattice. He
kneeled, and the three women with him, and
he prayed aloud with an earnest quavering
voice for, what appeared to me, a long
time. I forget all my life preceding that
event, and for some time after it is all
obscure also, but the scenes I have just
described stand out vivid as the isolated
pictures of the phantasmagoria surrounded
by darkness.


CHAPTER II.
A GUEST.
AM now going to tell you something
so strange that it will require all your
faith in my veracity to believe my story. It
is not only true, nevertheless, but truth of
which I have been an eye-witness.
It was a sweet summer evening, and my
father asked me, as he sometimes did, to take
a little ramble with him along that beautiful
forest vista which I have mentioned as lying
in front of the schloss.


CARMILLA. 65
“General Spielsdorf cannot come to us so
soon as I had hoped,” said my father, as we
pursued our walk.
He was to have paid us a visit of some
weeks, and we had expected his arrival next
day. He was to have brought with him a
young lady, his neice and ward, Made-
moiselle Rheinfeldt, whom I had never seen,
but whom I had heard described as a very
charming girl, and in whose society I had
promised myself many happy days. I was
more disappointed than a young lady living
in a town, or a bustling neighbourhood can
possibly imagine. This visit, and the new
acquaintance it promised, had furnished my
day dream for many weeks.
“And how soon does he come?” I
asked.
“Not till autumn. Not for two months,
I dare say,” he answered. “And I am very
WOL. III. F


66 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
~
glad now, dear, that you never knew Made-
moiselle 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 re-
ceived 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 -


CARMILLA. 67
was setting with all its melancholy splendour
behind the sylvan horizon, and the stream
that flows beside our home, and passes under
the steep old bridge I have mentioned, wound
through many a group of noble trees, almost
at our feet, reflecting in its current the fading
crimson of the sky. General Spieldorf's
letter was so extraordinary, so vehement,
and in some places so self-contradictory, that
I read it twice over—the second time aloud
to my father—and was still unable to account
for it, except by supposing that grief had
unsettled his mind.
It said “I have lost my darling daughter,
for as such I loved her. During the last
days of dear Bertha's illness I was not able
to write to you. Before then I had no idea
of her danger. I have lost her, and now
learn all, too late. She died in the peace of
innocence, and in the glorious hope of a
F 2


68 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
blessed futurity. The fiend who betrayed
our infatuated hospitality has done it all. I
thought I was receiving into my house inno-
cence, 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 accom-
plish 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 blind-
ness, 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,


CARMILLA. 69
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. Fare-
well. 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 intel-
ligence; 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


7o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 ex-
quisite moonlight.
We heard their voices gabbling in animated
dialogue as we approached. We joined them
at the drawbridge, and turned about to ad-
mire 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 thicken-
ing 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 show-
ing in the shadows some grey ivy-clustered
rocks.


CARMILLA. 7 I
Over the sward and low grounds a thin
film of mist was stealing, like smoke, mark-
ing 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 melan-
choly; 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 ex-
panse beneath us. The two good governesses,
standing a little way behind us, discoursed
upon the scene, and were eloquent upon the
In OO11.
Madame Perrodon was fat, middle-aged,
and romantic, and talked and sighed poeti-
cally. Mademoiselle De Lafontaine—in right
of her father, who was a German, assumed to


72 - IN A GLASS DARKLY.
be psychological, metaphysical, and something
of a mystic—now declared that when the
moon shone with a light so intense it was
well known that it indicated a special spiritual
activity. The effect of the full moon in such
a state of brilliancy was manifold. It acted
on dreams, it acted on lunacy, it acted on
nervous people; it had marvellous physical
influences connected with life. Mademoiselle
related that her cousin, who was mate of a
merchant ship, having taken a nap on deck
on such a night, lying on his back, with his
face full in the light of the moon, had
wakened, after a dream of an old woman
clawing him by the cheek, with his features
horribly drawn to one side; and his counte-
nance had never quite recovered its equi-
librium.
“The moon, this night,” she said, “is full
of odylic and magnetic influence—and see,


CARMILLA. - 73
when you look behind you at the front of
the schloss, how all its windows flash and
twinkle with that silvery splendour, as if
unseen hands had lighted up the rooms to
receive fairy guests.”
There are indolent states of the spirits in
which, indisposed to talk ourselves, the talk
of others is pleasant to our listless ears; and
I gazed on, pleased with the tinkle of the
ladies' conversation.
“I have got into one of my moping moods
to-night,” said my father, after a silence, and
quoting Shakespeare, whom, by way of keep-
ing 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


74. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
great misfortune were hanging over us. I
suppose the poor General's afflicted letter has
had something to do with it.”
At this moment the unwonted sound of
carriage wheels and many hoofs upon the
road, arrested our attention.
They seemed to be approaching from the
high ground overlooking the bridge, and
very soon the equipage emerged from that
point. Two horsemen first crossed the bridge,
then came a carriage drawn by four horses,
and two men rode behind.
It seemed to be the travelling carriage of a
person of rank; and we were all immediately
absorbed in watching that very unusual spec-
tacle. 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,


CARMILLA 75
the whole team broke into a wild gallop to-
gether, and dashing between the horsemen
who rode in front, came thundering along
the road towards us with the speed of a
hurricane.
The excitement of the scene was made
more painful by the clear, long-drawn screams
of a female voice from the carriage window.
We all advanced in curiosity and horror;
my father in silence, the rest with various
ejaculations of terror. -
Our suspense did not last long. Just
before you reach the castle drawbridge, on
the route they were coming, there stands by
the roadside a magnificent lime-tree, on the
other stands an ancient stone cross, at sight
of which the horses, now going at a pace
that was perfectly frightful, swerved so as to
bring the wheel over the projecting roots of
the tree.


76 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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


CARMILLA. 77
for anything but the slender girl who was
being placed against the slope of the bank.
I approached; the young lady was ap-
parently stunned, but she was certainly not
dead. My father, who piqued himself on
being something of a physician, had just had
his fingers to her wrist and assured the lady,
who declared herself her mother, that her
pulse, though faint and irregular, was un-
doubtedly 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


78 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
countenance, though now agitated strangely.
“Was ever being so born to calamity?” I
heard her say, with clasped hands, as I came
up. “Here am I, on a journey of life and death,
in prosecuting which to lose an hour is possibly
to lose all. My child will not have recovered
sufficiently to resume her route for who can
say how long. I must leave her; I cannot,
dare not, delay. How far on, sir, can you tell,
is the nearest village? I must leave her there;
and shall not see my darling, or even hear of
her till my return, three months hence.”
I plucked my father by the coat, and
whispered earnestly in his ear: “Oh ! papa,
pray ask her to let her stay with us—it would
be so delightful. Do, pray.” -
“If Madame will entrust her child to the
care of my daughter, and of her good.
gouvernante, Madame Perrodon, and permit
her to remain as our guest, under my charge,


CARMILLA. 79
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


8o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
your journey, you must part with her to-
night, and nowhere could you do so with
more honest assurances of care and tender-
ness than here.”
There was something in this lady's air and
appearance so distinguished, and even impos-
ing, 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 be-
ginning 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 counte-


CARMILLA. 81
nance, not at all like that with which she had
hitherto spoken.
I was filled with wonder that my father did
not seem to perceive the change, and also
unspeakably curious to learn what it could be
that she was speaking, almost in his ear, with
so much earnestness and rapidity.
Two or three minutes at most I think she
remained thus employed, then she turned,
and a few steps brought her to where her
daughter lay, supported by Madame Perrodon.
She kneeled beside her for a moment and
whispered, as Madame supposed, a little
benediction in her ear; then hastily kissing
her she stepped into her carriage, the door
was closed, the footmen in stately liveries
jumped up behind, the outriders spurred on,
the postillions cracked their whips, the horses
plunged and broke suddenly into a furious
canter that threatened soon again to become a
VOL. III. G


82 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
gallop, and the carriage whirled away, followed
at the same rapid pace by the two horsemen
in the rear.


CHAPTER III.
WE COMPARE NOTES.
E followed the cortège with our eyes
until it was swiftly lost to sight
in the misty wood; and the very sound of
the hoofs and the wheels died away in the
silent night air.
Nothing remained to assure us that the ad-
venture 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

G 2


84 IN A GLASS, DARKLY.
head, evidently looking about her, and I
heard a very sweet voice ask complainingly,
“Where is mamma P”
Our good Madame Perrodon answered
tenderly, and added some comfortable as-
Sultan CeS.
I then heard her ask :
“Where am I? What is this place P” 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 mis-
adventure 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 Mademoi:


CARMILLA. 85
selle 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 bed-
room 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.


86 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 sur-
rounded 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 comfort-
able; 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.


CARMILLA. 87
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 l’’ added Madame
Perrodon.
“Did you remark a woman in the carriage,
after it was set up again, who did not get


88 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
out,” inquired Mademoiselle, “but only
looked from the window P”
“No, we had not seen her.”
Then she described a hideous black woman,
with a sort of coloured turban on her head,
who was gazing all the time from the carriage
window, nodding and grinning derisively to-
wards the ladies, with gleaming eyes and
large white eye-balls, and her teeth set as if .
in fury.
“Did you remark what an ill-looking pack
of men the servants were 2" asked Madame.
“Yes,” said my father, who had just come
in, “ugly, hang-dog looking fellows, as ever
I beheld in my life. I hope they mayn't rob
the poor lady in the forest. They are clever
rogues, however; they got everything to
rights in a minute.”
“I dare say they are worn out with too
long travelling,” said Madame. “Besides


CARMILLA. 89
looking wicked, their faces were so strangely
lean, and dark, and sullen. I am very curious,
I own; but I dare say the young lady will
tell us all about it to-morrow, if she is suffi-
ciently recovered.”
“I don't think she will,” said my father,
with a mysterious smile, and a little nod of
his head, as if he knew more about it than he
cared to tell us.
This made me all the more inquisitive as to
what had passed beeween him and the lady
in the black velvet, in the brief but earnest
interview that had immediately preceded
her departure. -
We were scarcely alone, when I entreated
him to tell me. He did not need much
pressing.
“There is no particular reason why I
should not tell you. She expressed a reluc-
tance to trouble us with the care of her


9o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 l” I inter-
polated. “It was so unnecessary.”
“At all events it was said,” he laughed,
“ and as you wish to know all that passed,
which was indeed very little, I tell you. She
then said, “I am making a long journey of
vital importance—she emphasized the word
—rapid and secret; I shall return for my
child in three months ; in the meantime, she
will be silent as to who we are, whence we
come, and whither we are travelling.” That
is all she said. She spoke very pure French.
When she said the word “secret,” she paused
for a few seconds, looking sternly, her eyes
fixed on mine. I fancy she makes a great
point of that. You saw how quickly she


CARMILLA. 91
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 sur-
rounded 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 over-
taken, 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 favour-
ably upon his patient. She was now sitting
up, her pulse quite regular, apparently per-
fectly well. She had sustained no injury, and


92 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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
foom.
The servant returned immediately to say
that she desired nothing more.
You may be sure I was not long in availing
myself of this permission.
Our visitor lay in one of the handsomest
rooms in the schloss. . It was, perhaps, a little
stately. There was a sombre piece of tapestry
opposite the foot of the bed, representing
Cleopatra with the asps to her bosom; and
other solemn classic scenes were displayed, a
little faded, upon the other walls. But there
was gold carving, and rich and varied colour
enough in the other decorations of the room,


CARMILLA. 93
to more than redeem the gloom of the old
tapestry.
There were candles at the bed side. She
was sitting up; her slender pretty figure
enveloped in the soft silk dressing gown,
embroidered with flowers, and lined with
thick quilted silk, which her mother had
thrown over her feet as she lay upon
the ground.
What was it that, as I reached the bed-side
and had just begun my little greeting, struck
me dumb in a moment, and made me recoil a
step or two from before her? I will tell
you.
I saw the very face which had visited me
in my childhood at night, which remained so
fixed in my memory, and on which I had for
so many years so often ruminated with
horror, when no one suspected of what I was
thinking.


94. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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, OVer-
coming 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. -


CARMILLA. 95
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
Inne.
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


96 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
both were mere children. I was a child,
about six years old, and I awoke from a con-
fused and troubled dream, and found myself
in a room, unlike my nursery, wainscoted
clumsily in some dark wood, and with cup-
boards and bedsteads, and chairs, and benches
placed about it. The beds were, I thought,
all empty, and the room itself without anyone
but myself in it; and I, after looking about
me for some time, and admiring especially
an iron candlestick, with two branches, which
I should certainly know again, crept under
one of the beds to reach the window;
but as I got from under the bed, I heard
some one crying; and looking up, while I
was still upon my knees, I saw you—most
assuredly you—as I see you now ; a beautiful
young lady, with golden hair and large
blue eyes, and lips—your lips—you, as
you are here. Your looks won me; I


CARMILLA. - 97
climbed on the bed and put my arms
about you, and I think we both fell asleep.
I was aroused by a scream; you were sitting
up screaming. I was frightened, and slipped
down upon the ground, and, it seemed to
me, lost consciousness for a moment; and
when I came to myself, I was again in my
nursery at home. Your face I have never
forgotten since. I could not be misled by
mere resemblance. You are the lady whom
I then saw.”
It was now my turn to relate my corres-
ponding vision, which I did, to the undis-
guised 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
VOL. III. H
*


98 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 P” She sighed, and her fine dark eyes
gazed passionately on me.
Now the truth is, I felt rather unaccount-
ably 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 in-
terested and won me; she was so beautiful
and so indescribably engaging,
I perceived now something of langour
and exhaustion stealing over her, and hastened
to bid her good night.
“The doctor thinks,” I added, “that you


CARMILLA. 99
ought to have a maid to sit up with you to-
night; 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 for-
give me. I see there is a key in the
lock.”
She held me close in her pretty arms for a
moment and whispered in my ear, “Good
night, darling, it is very hard to part with
you, but good-night; to-morrow, but not
early, I shall see you again.”
She sank back on the pillow with a sigh,
and her fine eyes followed me with a fond
H 2.


IOO IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 remem-
brance of the face presented in my early
dream, had lost the effect of the first unex-
pected recognition. -
She confessed that she had experienced a
similar shock on seeing me, and precisely the


CARMILLA. I of
same faint antipathy that had mingled with
my admiration of her. We now laughed
together over our momentary horrors.


CHAPTER IV.
HER HABITS-A SAUNTER.
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


CARMILLA. Io 3
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 con-
fidence won me the first night I saw her;
but I found that she exercised with respect to
herself, her mother, her history, everything


IoA: IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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.


CARMILLA. Io 5
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


I of IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 declara-
tions 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


CARMILLA. 107
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 un-
intelligible to me.
From these foolish embraces, which were
not of very frequent occurrence, I must
allow, I used to wish to extricate myself;


1 o' IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 con-
scious 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;


CARMILLA. Io9
though with a vivid and very sharp remem-
brance 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 em-
barrassed me; it was hateful and yet over-
powering; 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


I Io IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 mani-
festations 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, notwith-
standing her mother's volunteered denial,
subject to brief visitations of insanity; or


CARMILLA. I I I
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 in-


I n 2, IN A GLASS DARKLY.
compatible 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 im-
mediately, 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 in-
dicated a people of strange manners, and


CARMILLA. 113
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?”
VOL. III, I


II.4. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“I think it very sweet, on the contrary,”
I answered, vexed at the interruption, and
very uncomfortable, lest the people who com-
posed 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 clergy-
man to the churchyard. I thought you
knew she was to be buried to day.”
“She 2 I don’t trouble my head about
peasants. I don’t know who she is,” answered
Carmilla, with a flash from her fine eyes.


CARMILLA. I 1.5
“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 con-
tinued. “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.”


1 16 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 sombre impression which the


CARMILLA. 117
spectacle had left upon me, she became un-
usually 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


1 r 8 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 hedge-
hogs, 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,


CARMILLA. 119
suspiciously at the drawbridge, and in a little
while began to howl dismally.
In the meantime, the mountebank, stand-
ing in the midst of the court-yard, raised his
grotesque hat, and made us a very cere-
monious 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 2 o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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.


CARMILLA. I2 I
In an instant he unrolled a leather case,
full of all manner of odd little steel instru-
lments.
“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?


I 2.2 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
Have I been too bold P 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 l’’
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


CARMILLA. - 123
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 re-
ferable to natural causes. These poor
people infect one another with their super-
stitions, 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


I 24. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 to-
day,” 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


CARMILLA. 125
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 papalike to frighten us?”
said the pretty girl, with a sigh and a little
shuddey
“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?”


126 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“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
larva, 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 3"


CARMILLA. 127
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
11OW.


CHAPTER V.
A WONDERFUL LIKEN ESS.
HIS evening there arrived from Gratz
the grave, dark-faced son of the pic-
ture 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


CARMILLA 129
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
VOL. III. K


1 3o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 evi-
dent pride. It was quite beautiful; it
was startling; it seemed to live. It was
the effigy of Carmilla!


CARMILLA. I 3 I
“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
K 2.


I 32 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 des–
cended from the Karnsteins ; that is, mamma
was.”
“Ah!” said the lady, languidly, “so am
I, I think, a very long descent, very an-
cient. Are there any Karnsteins living
now P”


CARMILLA. I 33
“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 land-
scape opened before us.


I 34. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“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.”


CARMILLA. 135
How beautiful she looked in the moon-
light !”
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.


136 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 mea-
sure,” 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.”


CARMILLA. 137
“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


138 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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.
HEN 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 Lafon-
taine, 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


140 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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


CARMILLA. I4 I
quite happy if I knew that you heard from
her; but this evening the accounts of the pro-
gress of the mysterious disease that has invaded
our neighbourhood, grow even more alarming;
and my beautiful guest, I do feel the respon-
sibility, 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 bash-
fully. “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,


142 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 con-
fidence 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


CARMILLA. 143
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


I44. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
going on above them, through a medium,
dense, rippling, but transparent. There oc-
curred 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 de-
cipher.


CARMILLA. 14.5
H bid her good-night, and crept from
the room with an uncomfortable sensa-
tion.
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 sub-
ject 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 tempera-
VOL. III. L


146 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
ment 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 assas-
sins. 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.


148 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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


CARMILLA. 14.9
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.


CHAPTER VII.
DESCENDING.
T 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


CARMILLA. I 5.1
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 neighbour-
hood. I had myself no misgivings of the
kind, and as he had been rather an invalid
for some time, I was afraid of alarming
him.
I was comfortable enough with my
good-natured companions, Madame Para-
don, and the vivacious Mademoiselle La-
fontaine. They both perceived that I was
out of spirits and nervous, and at length
I told them what lay so heavy at my
heart. -
Mademoiselle laughed, but I fancied that
Madame Paradon looked anxious.
“By-the-by,” said Mademoiselle, laugh-


I 52 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
ing, “the long lime-tree walk, behind Car-
milla's bedroom—window, is haunted !”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Madame, who
probably thought the theme rather in-
opportune, “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


CARMILLA. I 53
interposed, “and she is, if possible, a greater
coward than I.”
Carmilla came down rather later than
usual that day.
“I was so frightened last night,” she
said, so soon as were together, “and I
am sure I should have seen something
dreadful if it had not been for that charm
I bought from the poor little hunchback
whom I called such hard names. I had
a dream of something black coming round
my bed, and I awoke in a perfect
horror, and I really thought, for some
seconds, I saw a dark figure near the
chimney-piece, but I felt under my pillow
for my charm, and the moment my
fingers touched it, the figure disappeared,
and I felt quite certain, only that I had
it by me, that something frightful would
have made its appearance, and, perhaps,


I 54- IN A GLASS DARKLY.
throttled me, as it did those poor people
we heard of.”
“Well, listen to me,” I began, and re-
counted 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 to-night, 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 dis-
tinctly 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


CARMILLA. I 55
was delightfully deep and dreamless. But
I wakened with a sense of lassitude and
melancholy, which, however, did not exceed
a degree that was almost luxurious.
“Well, I told you so,” said Carmilla,
when I described my quiet sleep, “I had
such delightful sleep myself last night; I
pinned the charm to the breast of my
night-dress. It was too far away the night
before. I am quite sure it was all fancy,
except the dreams. I used to think that
evil spirits made dreams, but our doctor
told me it is no such thing. Only a fever
passing by, or some other malady, as they
often do, he said, knocks at the door, and
not being able to get in, passes on, with
that alarm.”
“And what do you think the charm is ?”
said I. -
“It has been fumigated or immersed in


156 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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


CARMILLA. 157
felt myself a changed girl. A strange melan-
choly was stealing over me, a melancholy
that I would not have interrupted. Dim
thoughts of death began to open, and an idea
that I was slowly sinking took gentle, and,
somehow, not unwelcome, possession of me.
If it was sad, the tone of mind which this
induced was also sweet. Whatever it might
be, my soul acquiesced in it.
I would not admit that I was ill, I would
not consent to tell my papa, or to have the
doctor sent for. -
Carmilla became more devoted to me than
ever, and her strange paroxysms of languid
adoration more frequent. She used to gloat
on me with increasing ardour the more my
strength, and spirits waned. This always
shocked me like a momentary glare of in-
sanity.
Without knowing it, I was now in a pretty


158 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 gradu-
ally a sense of the horrible mingled itself with
it, deepening, as you shall hear, until it dis-
coloured 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 accom-


CARMILLA. 159 |
panied by dreams that seemed interminable,
and were so vague that I could never recollect
their scenery and persons, or any one con-
nected portion of their action. But they left
an awful impression, and a sense of exhaus-
tion, as if I had passed through a long period
of great mental exertion and danger. After
all these dreams there remained on waking
a remembrance of having been in a place very
nearly dark, and of having spoken to people
whom I could not see; and especially of one
clear voice, of a female's, very deep, that
spoke as if at a distance, slowly, and producing
always the same sensation of indescribable
solemnity and fear. Sometimes there came
a sensation as if a hand was drawn softly
along my cheek and neck. Sometimes it
was as if warm lips kissed me, and longer
and more lovingly as they reached my
throat, but there the caress fixed itself.


16o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 com-
mencement 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 derange- .


CARMILLA. 1.61
ment. 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 con-
dition, I would have invoked aid and advice
on my knees. The narcotic of an unsus-
pected influence was acting upon me, and
my perceptions were benumbed.
VOL. III. M


162 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
I am going to tell you now of a
dream that led immediately to an odd dis-
covery.
One night, instead of the voice I was
accustomed to hear in the dark, I heard
one, sweet and tender, and at the same
time terrible, which said, “Your mother
warns you to beware of the assassin.” At
the same time a light unexpectedly
sprang up, and I saw Carmilla, standing, near
the foot of my bed, in her white night-
dress, bathed, from her chin to her feet, in
one great stain of blood.
I wakened with a shriek, possessed with
the one idea that Carmilla was being
murdered. I remember springing from my
bed, and my next recollection is that of
standing on the lobby, crying for help.
Madame and Mademoiselle came scurry-
ing out of their rooms in alarm; a lamp


CARMILLA. 163
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 in-
volved 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. Recog-
M 2.


164 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
nising 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.


CHAPTER VIII.
SEARCH.
T sight of the room, perfectly un-
disturbed except for our violent
entrance, we began to cool a little, and
soon recovered our senses sufficiently to
dismiss the men. It had struck Mademoi—
selle 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


166 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
course, emerge until the majordomo and his
myrmidons had withdrawn. We now re-
commenced our search, and began to call
her by name again.
It was all to no purpose. Our per-
plexity and agitation increased. We ex-
amined 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 house-keeper said
were known to exist in the schloss, although
the tradition of their exact situation had
been lost. A little time would, no doubt,


CARMILLA. 167
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 château
was searched. The grounds were explored.
Not a 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 ex-
citement. It was now one o'clock, and still
no tidings. I ran up to Carmilla's room,


168 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
and found her standing at her dressing-
table. I was astounded. I could not be-
lieve 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 P”
“Last night has been a night of won-
ders,” she said.
“For mercy's sake, explain all you
can.”
“It was past two last night,” she said,


CARMILLA. 169
“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 awoke
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 with-
out 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 P”
By this time, Madame, Mademoiselle,
my father, and a number of the servants
were in the room. Carmilla was, of course,
overwhelmed with inquiries, congratula-


CARMILLA. 171
tell you everything. But my story is
simply one of bewilderment and darkness.
I know absolutely nothing. Put any ques-
tion 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 re-
moved from your bed and your room,
without being wakened, and this remo-
val having occurred apparently while the
windows were still secured, and the two
doors locked upon the inside. I will tell
you my theory, and first ask you a ques-
tion.”
Carmilla was leaning on her hand de-
jectedly; Madame and I were listening
breathlessly.


172 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“Now, my question is this. Have you
ever been suspected of walking in your
sleep?”
“Never, since I was very young in-
deed.”
“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 up-stairs or down-stairs. There
are so many rooms and closets, so much
heavy furniture, and such accumulations


CARMILLA 173
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, Car-
milla,” 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


174: IN A GLASS DARKLY.
alarm Carmilla, or any one 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.


CHAPTER IX.
THE DOCTOR.
S 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 could 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.


176 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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.”


CARMILLA. 177
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 further 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 sup-
pose, all the less audible for the sort of
closet which the thick wall and window
formed.
After a time my father's face looked
VOL. III. N


CARMILLA. 179
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 suf-
fering.”
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.


18o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“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 con-
tinued, turning to papa, “the question is
what is best to be done P”
“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 —


CARMILLA. 181
the same point was a kind of centre of
that thrill which you described just now,
like the current of a cold stream run-
ning 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 P”
“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 conse-
quence, I hope; but it will be necessary
that some steps be taken, which I will ex-
plain by-and-bye; 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 indispens-
able.”


182 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“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 after-
noon.”
“I thank you,” said the doctor. “I
shall be with you, then, at about seven
this evening.”


CARMILLA. 183
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 Dranfeld 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 direc-
tion which the doctor and my father had


184 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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.
This interpretation did not strike
me; and I fancied, perhaps luckily
for my nerves, that the arrangement
was prescribed simply to secure a com-
panion, 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


CARMILLA. 185
been here yesterday, he may not come
till to-morrow, or he may be here to—
day.”
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,


186 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
at least, on the high road to a complete
recovery, in a day or two,” he answered,
a little drily. “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


CARMILLA. 187
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 pic-
turesque grounds, upon business, and as
Carmilla had never seen them, she could
follow, when she came down, with Made-
moiselle, who would bring materials for
what you call a pic-nic, 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 Karn-
stein. -


188 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 sud-
denly encountered our old friend, the General,
riding towards us, attended by a mounted
servant. His portmanteaus were following
in a hired waggon, such as we term a
Cart.
The General dismounted as we pulled
up, and, after the usual greetings, was


CARMILLA. 189
easily persuaded to accept the vacant seat
in the carriage, and send his horse on with
his servant to the schloss.


CHAPTER X.
BEREAVED.
T 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 characterise 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


CARMILLA. I 9 I
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 be-
reavement, 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, in-
veighing against the “hellish arts” to
which she had fallen a victim, and ex-
pressing, 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 some-
thing very extraordinary had befallen,
asked him, if not too painful to him, to
detail the circumstances which he thought


192 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
justified the strong terms in which he ex-
pressed 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 re-
member 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 gener-
ally require proof for what you believe,
and am, therefore, very strongly pre-disposed
to respect your conclusions.”
“You are right in supposing that I
have not been led lightly into a belief
in the marvellous—for what I have ex-


CARMILLA. - 193
perienced is marvellous—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 con-
fidence 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 Karn-
stein?” he said. “Yes, it is a lucky coin-
cidence; 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
VOL. III. o


194 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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.”


CARMILLA. 195
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
O 2.


196 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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


CARMILLA. 197
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 travelling to Karn-
stein.
“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.”


CHAPTER XI.
THE STORY.
CC ITH 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


CARMILLA. I99
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 fêtes which, you re-
member, were given by him in honour
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 coloured 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


CARMILLA. 2O I
“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 excite-
ment and delight added an unspeakable
charm to her features, always lovely. I
remarked a young lady, dressed magnifi-
cently, but wearing a mask, who - ap-
peared 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, accom-
panied her as a chaperon. Had the young
lady not worn a mask, I could, of course, have
been much more certain upon the question


CARMILLA. 203
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


204 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
and grace, got into conversation with my
ward.
“She introduced herself by saying that
her mother was a very old acquain-
tance of mine. She spoke of the agree-
able 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 ball-
room, 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


CARMILLA. 205
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
licence 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 unreason-
able?” she replied. “Ask a lady to yield
an advantage! Beside, how do you know
you should recognise me? Years make
changes.’
“‘As you see, I said, with a bow,


206 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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.’


CARMILLA. 207
“‘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 honoured 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
pre-arranged, as I now believe, with the
profoundest cunning, as liable to be modified
by accident.


zo8 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“‘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 dis-
tinguished, 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


CARMILLA. 209
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 cudgelling 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, château, 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
VOL. III. P


2 Io IN A GLASS DARKLY.
la Comtesse when her carriage is at the
door.”
“He withdrew with a bow.”


CHAPTER XII.
A PETITION.
CC & HEN 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

P 2.


2 I 2. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 per-
plexities multiply. I am only deterred by
the compulsory reserve I practise 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


CARMILLA. 2 I 3
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 conceal-
ment.”
“She went on to make her petition,
and it was in the tone of a person from
whom such a request amounted to con-
ferring, rather than seeking a favour.
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


2I4. IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 under-
tone, 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


CARMILLA. 2 I 5
assailed me together, and I must confess
the refined and beautiful face of the
young lady, about which there was some-
thing 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.


216 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“The gentleman in black returned, and
very ceremoniously conducted the lady from
the room. -
“The demeanour 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 distin-
guished 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 im-
prudently for a moment, about an hour
ago, and, too late, I fancied you saw me.
So I resolved to seek an opportunity of


CARMILLA. 217
talking a little to you. Had I found that
you had seen me, I should have thrown
myself on your high sense of honour to
keep my secret for 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 honour.
My daughter will observe the same secresy,
and I well know that you will, from time
to time, remind her, lest she should thought-
lessly disclose it.’
“She whispered a few words to her
daughter, kissed her hurriedly twice, and
went away, accompanied by the pale gen-
tleman 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


2 18 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
of mamma, and to kiss my hand to
her.’
“We assented, of course, and accom-
panied her to the window. We looked
out, and saw a handsome old-fashioned
carriage, with a troop of couriers and foot-
men. We saw the slim figure of the pale
gentleman in black, as he held a thick
velvet cloak, and placed it about her shoul-
ders 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.


CARMILLA. 2 I 9
“‘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 re-
turn 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 be-
came very intimate with us, and amused
us with lively descriptions and stories of


22 O IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 even-
ings at home.
“This ball was not over until the morn-
ing 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.


CARMILLA. 2.2. I
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 recognised
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 im–
posing 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.


2.2.2, IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“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 dis-
tress, 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, notwith-
standing 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.


CARMILLA. 223
“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.


CARMILLA. 225
its place till she admitted the maid to
assist at her toilet, that she was un-
doubtedly 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 P
“In the midst of my perplexities, an
VOL. III. Q


CARMILLA. 227
sense of strangulation; then came uncon-
sciousness.”
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 vil-
lage which had not shown the smoke
of a chimney for more than half a cen-
tury.
You may guess how strangely I felt
as I heard my own symptoms so exactly
described in those which had been experi-
enced by the poor girl who, but for
the catastrophe which followed, would
have been at that moment a visitor at my
father's château. You may suppose, also,
how I felt as I heard him detail habits
and mysterious peculiarities which were, in
Q 2. *


CARMILLA. 229
the wide, undulating expanse of forest.
“It was a bad family, and here its blood-
stained 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.”


23o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“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 in-
tended, 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,


232 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
“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 hurry-
ing 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


CARMILLA. 233
hand, the hardy old fellow stood before
UlS.
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
Iman.
“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


CARMILLA, 235
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 Mora-
vian, whom he saw at the summit of the
tower, and who, in reply, beckoned him


CARMILLA. 237
> *
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.


CHAPTER XIV.
THE MEETING.
(c. Y beloved child,” he resumed,
was now growing rapidly worse.
The physician who attended her had failed
to produce the slightest impression upon
her disease, for such I then supposed it
to be. He saw my alarm, and suggested
a consultation. I called in an abler phy-
sician, from Gratz. Several days elapsed
before he arrived. He was a good and
pious, as well as a learned man. Having


CARMILLA. 239
seen my poor ward together, they with-
drew to my library to confer and discuss.
I, from the adjoining room, where I awaited
their summons, heard these two gentle-
men'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 main-
taining his theory. His rival was combat-
ting it with undisguised ridicule, accom-
panied 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


24.o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
Général, that by my skill and science I
can be of no use. Before I go I shall do
myself the honour 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, sig-
nificantly touched his forehead.
“This consultation, then, left me pre-
cisely where I was. I walked out into the
grounds, all but distracted. The doctor
from Gratz, in ten or fifteen minutes,
overtook me. He apologised 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


CARMILLA. 24. I
exhibited the same symptoms; and that
death was already very near. There re-
mained, 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 irre-
vocable. 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 dis-
tinct 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
VOL. III. R


242 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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


CARMILLA. 2.4-3
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 sceptical 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 intelli-
gence oddly associated with some one
hallucination. I was so miserable, however,
R 2


CARMILLA. 24.5
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 spectre 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


246 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 re-
lieved on hearing the voices of Car-
milla 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 mouldering 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,


CARMILLA. 24-7
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 monu-
ment.
Under a narrow, arched doorway, sur-
mounted by one of those demoniacal
grotesques in which the cynical and
ghastly fancy of old Gothic carving de-
lights, 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 brutalised change came
over her features. It was an instantaneous


248 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 im-
patiently repeating again and again, the
question, “Where is Mademoiselle Car-
milla P”
I answered at length, “I don’t know


CARMILLA. 249
—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 Car-
milla entered; and she did not re-
turn.”
She then began to call “Carmilla,”
through every door and passage and from
the windows, but no answer came.
“She called herself Carmilla P” 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. De-
part from this accursed ground, my poor
child, as quickly as you can. Drive to
the clergyman's house, and stay there


250 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
till we come. Begone ! May you never
behold Carmilla more; you will not find
her here.”


CHAPTER XV.
OR DEAL AND EXECUTION.
A S he spoke one of the strangest
M. 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, stoop-
ing, 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.


CARMILLA. 253
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 con-
cluded 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 begun measuring distances by paces,
and finally they all stood together, facing
a piece of the side-wall, which they began
to examine with great minuteness; pulling
off the ivy that clung over it, and


CARMILLA. - 255
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 knew 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 dis-
cussion 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


256 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 deter-
mined to keep from me.
The sinister absence of Carmilla made
the remembrance of the scene more hor-
rible to me. The arrangements for that
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-
TOOIm.


CARMILLA. 257
The priest had performed certain solemn
rites that night, the purport of which I
did not understand any more than I com-
prehended 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 fol-
lowed by the discontinuance of my nightly
sufferings. - -
You have heard, no doubt, of the ap-
palling superstition that prevails in Upper
and Lower Styria, in Moravia, Silisia, in
Turkish Servia, 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 com-
missions innumerable, each consisting of
many members, all chosen for integrity
VOL. III. s


26o IN A GLASS DARKLY.
from the severed neck. The body and
head were 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.


262 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
dreadful, and solitude insupportably ter-
rific.
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 mar-
vellously authenticated tradition of Wam-
pirism. He had at his fingers' ends all
the great and little works upon the subject.
“Magia Posthuma,” “Phlegon de Mira-
bilibus,” “Augustinus de curá pro Mortuis,”
“Philosophica et Christianae Cogitationes
de Vampiris,” by John Christofer Heren-
berg; and a thousand others, among which


CARMILLA. 263
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,
the 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


CARMILLA. 267
beautiful Mircalla, Countess Karnstein.
Her early death plunged him into in-
consolable grief. It is the nature of
vampires to increase and multiply, but
according to an ascertained and ghostly
law. -
“Assume, at starting, a territory per-
fectly 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 spectre visits living
people in their slumbers; they die, and
almost invariably, in the grave, develope
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


268 IN A GLASS DARKLY.
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 Coun-
tess, 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 am-
phibious 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


CARMILLA. 269
back on the scenes he was leaving, he con-
sidered, 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 decep-
tion that he had practised. 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