 Prologue of Carmilla. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ashley Jane. Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Lafannou. Prologue. On a paper attached to the narrative, which follows, Dr. Hercelius has written a rather elaborate note which he accompanies with a reference to his essay on the strange subject which the Miz illuminates. This mysterious subject he treats in that essay with his usual learning and acumen and with remarkable directness and condensation. It will form but one volume of the series of that extraordinary man's collected papers. As I publish the case in this volume, simply to interest the laity, I shall forestall the intelligent lady who relates it in nothing. And after due consideration I have determined, therefore, to abstain from presenting any precess of the learned doctor's reasoning or extract from his statement on a subject which he describes as involving, not improbably, some of the profoundest arcana of our dual existence and its intermediates. I was anxious on discovering this paper to reopen the correspondence commenced by Dr. Hercelius so many years before, with the 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. So, probably could have added little to the narrative which she communicates in the following pages, with, so far as I can pronounce, such conscientious, particularity, end of Prologue. Chapter 1 of Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Lefannu This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ashley Jane. Chapter 1 An Early Fright In Styria, we, though by no means magnificent people, inhabit a castle, a schloss. A small income in that part of the world goes a great way. Eight or nine hundred a year does wonders. Scantily enough, ours would have answered among wealthy people at home. My father is English, and I bear an English name, although I never saw England. But here, in this lonely and primitive place, where everything is so marvelously cheap, I really don't see how ever so much more money would at all materially add to our comforts, or even luxuries. My father was in the Austrian service, and retired upon a pension and his patron money, and purchased this feudal residence, and the small estate on which it stands, a bargain. Nothing can be more picturesque or solitary. It stands on a slight eminence in a forest. The road very old and narrow passes in front of its drawbridge, never raised in my time, and its moat, stocked with perch, and sailed over by many swans, and floating on its surface white fleets of water lilies. Over all this, the schloss shows its many windowed front, its towers, and its gothic chapel. The forest opens in an irregular and very picturesque glade before its gate, and at the right a steep gothic bridge carries the road over a stream that winds in deep shadow through the wood. I have said that this is a very lonely place. Judge whether I say truth. Looking from the hall-door towards the road, the forest in which our castle stands extends fifteen miles to the right, and twelve to the left. The nearest inhabited village is about seven of your English miles to the left. The nearest inhabited schloss of any historic associations is that of old General Spielsdorf, nearly twenty miles away to the right. I have said the nearest inhabited village because there is only three miles westward. That is to say in the direction of General Spielsdorf's schloss, a ruined village, with its quaint little church, now roofless, in the isle of which are the mouldering tombs of the proud family of Canstein, now extinct, who once owned the equally desolate Chateau, which in the thick of the forest overlooks the silent ruins of the town. Respecting the cause of the desertion of this striking and melancholy spot, there is a legend which I shall relate to you another time. I must tell you now how very small is the party who constitute the inhabitants of our castle. I don't include servants or those dependents who occupy rooms in the buildings attached to the schloss. Listen and wonder. My father, who is the kindest man on earth, but growing old, and I at the date of my story, only nineteen. Eight years have passed since then. I and my father constituted the family at the schloss. My mother, a Styrian lady, died in infancy, but I had a good-natured governess who had been with me from, I might almost say, my infancy. I could not remember the time when her fat, benignant face was not a familiar picture in my memory. This was Madame Peridon, a native of Bern, whose care and good-nature now in part supplied me to 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. Madame Waselle, de la Fontaine, a lady such as you term, I believe, a finishing governess. She spoke French and German, Madame Peridon, French and broken English, to which my father and I added English, which partly to prevent its becoming a lost language among us, and partly from patriotic motives we spoke every day. The consequence was a babel, at which strangers used to laugh, and which I shall make no attempt to reproduce in this narrative. And there were two or three young lady-friends besides, pretty nearly of my own age, who were occasional visitors, for longer or shorter terms, and these visits I sometimes returned. These were our regular social resources. But, of course, there were chance visits from neighbours of only five or six leagues' distance. My life, notwithstanding, rather a solitary one, I can assure you. My guvernante had just so much control over me as you might conjecture such sage-persons would have in the case of a rather spoiled girl whose only parent allowed her pretty nearly her own way in everything. The first occurrence in my existence which produced a terrible impression upon my mind, which, in fact, never has been effaced, was one of the very earliest incidents of my life which I can recollect. Some people will think it so trifling that it should not be recorded here. You will see, however, by and by why I mention it. The nursery, as it was called, though I had it all to myself, was a large room in the upper story of the castle with a steep oak roof. I can't have been more than six years old when one night I awoke, and looking round the room from my bed, failed to see the nursery made. Neither was my nurse there, and I thought myself alone. I was not frightened, for I was one of those happy children, who are studiously kept in ignorance of ghost stories, of fairy tales, and of all such law as makes us cover our heads when the door cracks suddenly. Or the flicker of an expiring candle makes the shadow of a bed post dance upon the ball, nearer to our faces. I was vexed and insulted at finding myself, as I conceived, neglected, and I began to whimper, preparatory to a hearty bout of roaring. When, to my surprise, I saw a solemn but very pretty face looking at me from the side of the bed. It was that of a young lady, who was kneeling with her hands under the coverlet. I looked at her with a kind of pleased wonder, and ceased whimpering. She caressed me with her hands, and lay down beside me on the bed, and drew me towards her, smiling. I felt immediately delightfully soothed, and fell asleep again. I was waken 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 very first time, frightened, and I yelled with all my might and main. Nurse, nurserymaid, housekeeper, all came running in, and hearing my story, they made light of it, soothing me all they could, meanwhile. But, child as I was, I could perceive that their faces were pale, with an unwanted look of anxiety. And I saw them look under the bed, and about the room, and peep under tables, and pluck under cupboards. And the housekeeper whispered to the nurse, lay your hand along the hollow in the bed. Someone did lie there, so sure as you did not. The place is still warm. I remember the nurserymaid petting me, and all three examining my chest, where I told them I felt the puncture, and pronouncing that there was no visible sign that any such thing had happened to me. The housekeeper and the two other servants, who were in charge of the nursery, remained sitting up all night, and from that time a servant always sat in the nursery until I was about fourteen. I was very nervous for a long time after this. A doctor was called in. He was pallid and elderly. How well I remember his long, satinine face, slightly pitted with smallpox, and his chestnut wig. For a good while, every second day, he came and gave me medicine, which of course I hated. The morning after I saw this apparition, I was in a state of terror, and could not bear to be left alone. Daylight, though it was, for a moment. I remember my father coming up and standing at the bedside, talking cheerfully, and asking the nurses 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-maids assuring me that it was she who had come and looked at me, and lain down beside me in the bed, and that I must have been half-dreaming not to have known her face. But this, though supported by the nurse, did not quite satisfy me. I remembered, in the course of that day, a venerable old man in a black cassock coming into the room with the nurse and housekeeper, and talking a little to them, and very kindly to me. His face was very sweet and gentle, and he told me they were going to pray, and joined my hands together, and desired me to say softly while they were praying. Lord hear all good prayers for us for Jesus' sake. I think these were the very words, for I often repeated them to myself, and my nurse used for years to make me say them in my prayers. I remembered so well the thoughtful sweet face of that white-haired old man in his black cassock as he stood in that rude lofty brown room with the clumsy furniture of a fashion three hundred years old about him, and the scanty light entering its shadowy atmosphere through the small lattice. He kneeled, and the three women with him, and he prayed aloud with an earnest, quavering voice for what appeared to me a long time. I forget all my life preceding that event, and for some time after it is all obscure also. But the scenes I have just described stand out, vivid as the isolated pictures of the phantasmagoria surrounded by darkness. End of Chapter 1 Recording by Ashley Jane Chapter 2 of Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan LaFannou This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Ashley Jane Chapter 2 A Guest I am now going to tell you something so strange that it will require all your faith in my veracity to believe my story. It is not only true, nevertheless, but truth of which I have been an eyewitness. It was a sweet summer evening, and my father asked me, as he sometimes did, to take a little ramble with him along that beautiful forest fista which I have mentioned as lying in front of the Schloss. General Spielstorff cannot come to us as soon as I had hoped, said my father as we pursued our walk. He was to have paid us a visit of some weeks, and we had expected his arrival next day. He was to have brought with him a young lady, his niece, and ward, Madame Wazelle Rinefeld, 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 daydream for many weeks. And how soon does he come? I asked. Not till autumn. Not for two months, I dare say. He answered. And I am very glad now, dear, that you never knew Madame Wazelle Rinefeld. And why? I asked, both mortified and curious. Because the poor young lady is dead, he replied. I quite forgot I had not told you, but you were not in the room when I received the General's letter this evening. I was very much shocked. General Spielstorff had mentioned in his first letter, six or seven weeks before, that she was not so well as he would wish her, but there was nothing to suggest the remotest suspicion of danger. Here is the General's letter. He said, handing it to me. I am afraid he is in great affliction. The letter appears to me to have been written very nearly in distraction. We sat down on a rude bench, under a group of magnificent lime trees. The sun was settling with all its melancholy splendour, behind the silver 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 Spielstorff's letter was so extraordinary, so vehement, and in some places so self-contradictory, that I read it twice over. The second time allowed to my father, and was still unable to account for it, except by supposing that grief had unsettled his mind. It said, I have lost my darling daughter, for as such I loved her. During the last days of Dear Bertha's illness, I was not able to write to you. Before then I had no idea of her danger. I have lost her, and now learn all too late. She died in the peace of innocence, and in the glorious hope of a blessed futurity. The fiend who betrayed our infatuated hospitality has done it all. I thought I was receiving into my house innocence, gaiety, a charming companion for my lost Bertha. Heaven's what a fool I have been! I thank my god my child died without a suspicion of the cause of her sufferings. She is gone without so much as conjecturing the nature of her illness, and the accursed passion of the agent of all this misery. I devote my remaining days to tracking and extinguishing a monster. I am told I may hope to accomplish my righteous and merciful purpose. At present there is scarcely a gleam of light to guide me. I curse my conceited incredulity, my despicable affectation of superiority, my blindness, my obstinacy, all too late. I cannot write or talk collectively now. I am distracted. So soon as I shall have a little recovered I mean to devote myself for a time to inquiry, which may possibly lead me as far as Vienna. Some time in the autumn, two months hence, or earlier if I live, I will see you, that is, if you permit me. I will then tell you all that I scarce dare put upon paper now. Farewell. Pray for me, my dear friend. In these terms ended this strange letter. Though I had never seen Bertha at Reinfeld, my eyes filled with tears at the sudden intelligence. I was startled, as well as profoundly disappointed. The sun had now set, and it was twilight by the time I had returned the General's letter to my father. It was a soft, clear evening, and we loitered, speculating upon the possible meanings of the violent and incoherent sentences which I had just been reading. We had nearly a mile to walk before reaching the road that passes the sloss in front, and by that time the moon was shining brilliantly. At the drawbridge we met Madame Peridon, and Madame Waselle de la Fontaine, who had come out with their bonnets, to enjoy the exquisite moonlight. We heard their voices gabbling in animated dialogue as we approached. We joined them at the drawbridge, and turned about to admire with them the beautiful scene, the glade through which we had just walked lay before us. At our left the narrow road wound away under clumps of lordly trees, and was lost to sight amid the thickening forest. At the right the same road crosses the steep and picturesque bridge, near which stands a ruined tower, which once guarded that pass. And beyond the bridge an abrupt eminence rises, covered with trees, and showing in the shadows some grey ivy-clustered rocks. Over the swore and low grounds a thin film of mist was stealing like smoke, marking the distances with a transparent veil, and here and there we could see the river faintly flashing in the moonlight. No softer, sweeter scene could be imagined. The news I had just heard made it melancholy, but nothing could disturb its character of profound serenity, and the enchanted glory and vagueness of the prospect. My father, who enjoyed the picturesque, and I, stood looking in silence over the expanse beneath us. The two good governesses, standing a little way behind us, discoursed upon the scene, and were eloquent upon the moon. Madame Peridon was fat, middle-aged, and romantic, and talked and sighed poetically. Madame Waselle de la Fontaine, in right of her father, was a German, assumed to be psychological, metaphysical, and something of a mystic, now declared that when the moon shone with a light so intense, it was well known that it indicated a special spiritual activity. The effect of the full moon in such a state of brilliancy was manifold. It acted on dreams, it acted on lunacy, it acted on nervous people. It had marvellous physical influences connected with life. Madame Waselle related that her cousin, who was made of a merchant ship, having taken a nap on a deck on such a night lying on his back with his face full in the light of the moon, had wakened after a dream of an old woman clawing him by the cheek, with his features horribly drawn to one side, and his countenance had never quite recovered its equilibrium. The moon, this night, she said, is full of idyllic and magnetic influence, and see, when you look behind you at the front of the sloss, 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 styles of the spirits, in which, indisposed to talk ourselves, the talk of others is pleasant to our listless ears, and I gazed on, pleased with the tinkle of the lady's conversation. I have got into one of my moping moods to-night, said my father after a silence, and quoting Shakespeare, whom by way of keeping up our English he used to read aloud, he said, In truth I know not why I am so sad. It wear is me. You say it wear is you. But how I got it, came by it. I forget the rest, but I feel as if some great misfortune were hanging over us. I suppose the poor general's afflicted letter has had something to do with it. At this moment the unwanted sound of carriage-wheels and many hoofs upon the road arrested our attention. They seemed to be approaching from the high ground overlooking the bridge, and very soon the equipage emerged from that point. Two horsemen first crossed the bridge, then came a carriage drawn by four horses, and two men rode behind. It seemed to be the travelling carriage of a person of rank, and we were all immediately absorbed in watching that very unusual spectacle. It became, in a few moments, greatly more interesting, for just as the carriage had passed the summit of the steep bridge, one of the leaders, taking fright, communicated his panic to the rest, and after a plunder or two the whole team broke into a wild gallop, and dashing between the horsemen who rode in front came thundering along the road towards us, with the speed of a hurricane. The excitement of the scene was made more painful by the clear, long-drawn screams of a female voice from the carriage window. We all advanced in curiosity and horror, me rather in silence, the rest with various ejaculations of terror. Our suspense did not last long. Just before you reached the castle drawbridge, on the route they were coming, there stands by the roadside a magnificent lime tree, on the other stands an ancient stone cross, at sight of which the horses, now going at a pace that was perfectly frightful, swerved so as to bring the wheel over the projecting roots of the tree. I knew what was coming. I covered my eyes, unable to see it out, and turned my head away. At the same moment I heard a cry from my lady friends, who had gone on a little. Curiosity opened my eyes, and I saw a scene of utter confusion. Two of the horses were on the ground, the carriage lay upon its side with two wheels in the air. The men were busy removing the traces, and a lady with a commanding air and figure had got out, and stood with clasped hands, raising the handkerchief that was in them every now and then to her eyes. Through the carriage door was now lifted a young lady who appeared to be lifeless. My dear old father was already beside the elder lady, with his hat in his hand, evidently tendering his aid and the resources of his schloss. The lady did not appear to hear him, or to have eyes for anything but the slender girl who was being placed against the slope of the bank. I approached. The young lady was apparently stunned, but she was certainly not dead. My father, who peaked himself on being something of a physician, had just had his fingers on her wrist and assured the lady who declared herself her mother, that her pulse, though faint and irregular, was undoubtedly still distinguishable. The lady clapped her hands and looked upwards as if in a momentary transport of gratitude, but immediately she broke out again, in that theatrical way which is, I believe, natural to some people. She was what is called a fine-looking woman for her time of life, and must have been handsome. She was tall, but not thin, and dressed in black velvet, and looked rather pale, but with a proud and commanding countenance, though now agitated strangely. Who was ever being so born to calamity? I heard her say with clasped hands as I came up. Here am I, on a journey of life and death, in prosecuting which to lose an hour is possibly to lose all. My child will not have recovered sufficiently to resume her route for who can say how long. I must leave her. I cannot dare not delay. How far on, sir, can you tell, is the nearest village. I must leave her there, and shall not see my darling, or even hear of her till my return, three months hence. I plucked my father by the coat and whispered earnestly in his ear. Oh, papa, pray ask her to let her stay with us. It would be so delightful. Do pray. If madame will entrust her child to the care of my daughter, and her good guvernante, madame Peridon, and permit her to remain as our guest under my charge until her return, it will confer a distinction and an obligation upon us, and we shall treat her with all the care and devotion which so sacred a trust deserves. I cannot do that, sir. It would be to task your kindness and chivalry too cruelly, said the lady, distractedly. It would, on the contrary, be to confer on us a very great kindness at the moment when we most need it. My daughter has just been disappointed by a cruel misfortune in a visit from which she had long anticipated a great deal of happiness. If you confide this young lady to our care it will be her best consolation. The nearest village on your route is distant, and affords no such in as you could think of placing your daughter at. You cannot allow her to continue her journey for any considerable distance without danger. If, as you say, you cannot suspend your journey, you must part with her to-night, and nowhere could you do so with more honest assurances of care and tenderness than here. There was something in this lady's air and appearance so distinguished, and even imposing, and in her manner so engaging as to impress one, quite apart from the dignity of her equipage, with the 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 their traces again. The lady threw on her daughter a glance which I fancied was not quite so affectionate as one might have anticipated from the beginning of the scene. Then she beckoned slightly to my father, and withdrew two or three steps with him out of hearing, and talked to him with a fixed and stern countenance, not at all like that with which she had hitherto spoken. I was filled with wonder that my father did not seem to perceive the change, and also unspeakably curious to learn what it could be that she was speaking, almost in his ear, with so much earnestness and rapidity. Two or three minutes at most I think she remained thus employed, then she turned, and a few steps brought her to wear her daughter-lay, supported by Madame Peridon. 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 libraries jumped up behind, the outriders spurred on, the pastillions cracked their whips, the horses plunged and broke suddenly into a furious canter that threatened soon again to become a gallop, and the carriage wild away, followed at the same rapid pace by the last horsemen in the rear. CHAPTER III. We compare notes. We followed the court-edge with our eyes until it was swiftly lost to the sight in the misty ward, and the very sound of the hoofs and the wheels died away in the silent night air. Nothing remained to assure us that the adventure had not been an illusion of a moment, but the young lady, who just at that moment opened her eyes. I could not see for her face was turned from me, but she raised her head evidently looking about her, and I heard a very sweet voice ask, complainingly, Where is Mamar? Our good Madame Peridon answered tenderly, and added some comfortable assurances. I then heard her ask, Where am I? What is this place? And after that she said, I don't see the carriage. And Matska, where is she? Madame answered all her questions in so far as she understood them, and gradually the young lady remembered how the misadventure came about, and was glad to hear that no one in or in attendance on the carriage was hurt, and on learning that her mamar had left her here till her return in about three months she wept. I was going to add my consolations to those of Madame Peridon when Madame Wasel de La Fontaine placed her hand upon my arm, saying, Don't approach. One at a time is as much as she can at present converse with. A very little excitement would possibly overpower her now. As soon as she is comfortably in bed I thought I will run up to her room and see her. My father in the meantime had sent a servant on horseback for the physician who lived about two leagues away, and a bedroom was being prepared for the young lady's reception. The stranger now rose, and leaning on Madame's arm walked slowly over the drawbridge and into the castle gate. In the hall servants waited to receive her, and she was conducted forthwith to her room. The room we usually sat in as our drawing room is long, having four windows that looked over the moat and drawbridge upon the forest scene I have just described. It is furnished in old carved oak with large carved cabinets, and the chairs are cushioned with crimson, eutect velvet. The walls are covered with tapestry and surrounded with great gold frames, the figures being as large as life in ancient and very curious costume, and the subjects represented our hunting, hawking, and generally festive. It is not too stately to be extremely comfortable, and here we had our tea, for with his usual patriotic leanings he insisted that the national beverage should make its appearance regularly with our coffee and chocolate. We sat here this night, and with candles lighted we're talking over the adventure of the evening. Madame Peridon and Madame Waselle de la Fontaine 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, through in Madame Waselle, who had peeped for a moment into the stranger's room. And such a sweet voice, added Madame Peridon. Did you remark a woman in the carriage after it was set up again who did not get out? Inquired Madame Waselle, but only looked from the window. No, we had not seen her. Then she described a hideous black woman, with a sort of coloured turban on her head, and who was gazing all the time from the carriage window, nodding and grinning derisively toward the ladies, with gleaming eyes and large white eyeballs, and her teeth set as in fury. Did you remark what an ill-looking pack of men the servants were? asked Madame. Yes, said my father, who had just come in, ugly, hangdog-looking fellows as ever I beheld in my life. I hope they may not rob the poor lady in the forest. They are clever rogues, however. They got everything to rights in a minute. I daresay they are worn out with too long travelling, said Madame. Besides looking wicked their faces were so strangely lean, and dark, and sullen. I am very curious. I own, but I daresay the young lady will tell you all about it tomorrow, if she is sufficiently recovered. I don't think she will. Said my father, with a mysterious smile, and a little nod of his head, as if he knew more about it than he cared to tell us. This made us all the more inquisitive as to what had passed between him and the lady in the black velvet in the brief but earnest interview that had immediately preceded her departure. We were scarcely alone when I entreated him to tell me. He did not need much pressing. There is no particular reason why I should not tell you. She expressed a reluctance to trouble us with the care of her daughter, saying she was in delicate health, and nervous, but not subject to any kind of seizure. She volunteered that, nor to any illusion, being in fact perfectly sane. How very odd to say all that! I interpolated. It was so unnecessary. At all events it was said, he laughed, and as you wish to know all that passed, which was indeed very little, I tell you. She then said, I am making a long journey of vital importance. She emphasised 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, once we came, and with her we are travelling. That is all she said. She spoke very pure French. When she said the word secret, she paused for a few seconds. Looking sternly, her eyes fixed on mine. I fancy she makes a great point of that. You saw how quickly she was gone. I hope I have not done a very foolish thing in taking charge of the young lady. For my part I was delighted. I was longing to see and talk to her, and only waiting till the doctor should give me leave. You, who live in towns, can have no idea how great an event the introduction of a new friend is, in such a solitude as surrounded us. The doctor did not arrive till nearly one o'clock, but I could no more have gone to my bed and slept than I could have overtaken, on foot, the carriage in which the princess in black velvet had driven away. When the physician came down to the drawing-room, it was to report very favourably upon his patient. She was now sitting up, her pulse quite regular, apparently perfectly well. She had sustained no injury, and a little shock to her nerves had passed away quite harmlessly. There could be no harm certainly in my seeing her if we both wished it, and with this permission I sent forthwith to know whether she would allow me to visit her for a few minutes in her room. The servant returned immediately to say that she desired nothing more. You may be sure I was not long in availing myself of this permission. Our visitor lay in one of the handsomest rooms in the Schloss. It was perhaps a little stately. There was a somber piece of tapestry opposite the foot of the bed, representing Cleopatra with the asps to her bosom, and other solemn classic scenes were displayed, a little faded upon the other walls. But there was gold carving, and rich and varied colour enough in the other decorations of the room to more than redeem the gloom of the old tapestry. There were candles at the bedside. She was sitting up, her slender pretty figure enveloped in the soft silk dressing gown embroidered with flowers, and lined with thick quilted silk, which her mother had thrown over her feet as she lay upon the ground. What was it that, as I reached the bedside and had just begun my little greeting, struck me dumb in that moment, and made me recoil a step or two from before her? I will tell you. I saw the very face which had visited me in my childhood at night which remained so fixed in my memory, and on which I had for so many years so often ruminated with horror when no one suspected of what I was thinking. It was pretty, even beautiful, and when I first beheld it wore the same melancholy expression. But this almost instantly lighted into a strange fixed smile of recognition. There was a silence of fully a minute, and then at length she spoke. I could not. How wonderful! she exclaimed. Twelve years ago I saw your face in a dream, and it has haunted me ever since. Wonderful indeed! I repeated, overcoming with an effort the horror that had for a time suspended my utterances. Twelve years ago in a vision or reality I certainly saw you. I could not forget your face. It has remained before my eyes ever since. Her smile had softened. Whatever I had fancied strange in it was gone, and it and her dimpling cheeks were now delightfully pretty and intelligent. I felt reassured, and continued more in the vein which hospitality indicated, to bid her welcome, and to tell her how much pleasure her accidental arrival had given us all, and especially what a happiness it was to me. I took her hands 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 wandering, and she said, I must tell you my vision about you. It is so very strange that you and I should have had, each of the other so vivid a dream, that each should have seen. I you, and you me, looking as we do now, when, of course, we both were mere children. I was a child, about six years old, and I awoke from a confused and troubled dream, and found myself in a room unlike my nursery. Wayne scotted clumsily in some dark wood, and with cupboards and bedsteads and chairs and benches placed about it. The bed's wire I thought all empty, and the room itself without any one but myself in it. And I, after looking about me for some time, and admiring especially an iron candlestick with two branches, which I should certainly know again, crept under one of the beds to reach the window. But, as I got from under the bed, I heard someone crying. And, looking up while I was still upon my knees, I saw you, most assuredly you, as I see you now, a beautiful young lady with golden hair and large blue eyes and lips, your lips, you, as you are here. Your looks won me. I climbed on the bed and put my arms about you, and I think we both fell asleep. I was aroused by a scream, you were sitting up screaming, I was frightened and slipped down upon the ground, and it seemed to me lost consciousness for a moment. And when I came to myself, I was again in my nursery at home. Your face I have never forgotten since. I could not be misled by mere resemblance. You are the lady whom I saw then. It was now my turn to relate my corresponding vision, which I did to the undistinguished wonder of my new acquaintance. I don't know which should be more afraid of the other, she said, again smiling. If you were less pretty, I think I should be very much afraid of you. But being as you are, and you and I both so young, I feel only that I have made your acquaintance twelve years ago, and have already a right to your intimacy. At all events it does seem as if we were destined, from our earliest childhood, to be friends. I wonder whether you feel as strangely drawn towards me as I do to you. I have never had a friend. Shall I find one now? She sighed, and her fine dark eyes gazed passionately on me. Now the truth is, I felt rather unaccountably towards the beautiful stranger. I did feel, as she said, drawn towards her. But there was also something of repulsion. In this ambiguous feeling, however, the sense of attraction immensely prevailed. She interested and won me. She was so beautiful, and so indescribably engaging. I perceived now something of languor and exhaustion stealing over her, and hastened to bid her good night. The doctor thinks, I added, that you ought to have a maid to sit up with you 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 forgive me. I see there is a key in the lock. She held me closed in her pretty arms for a moment, and whispered in my ear, Good night, darling. It is very hard to part with you. But good night. Tomorrow, but not early, I shall see you again. She sank back on the pillow with a sigh, and her fine eyes followed me with a fond and melancholy gaze, and she murmured again, Good night, dear friend. Young people like, and even love on, impulse. I was flattered by the evident, though as yet undeserved fondness she showed me. I liked the confidence with which she 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 the daylight. She was certainly the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, and the unpleasant remembrance of the face presented in my early dream had lost the effect of the first unexpected recognition. She confessed that she had experienced a similar shock on seeing me, and precisely the same faint antipathy that had mingled with my admiration of her. We now laugh together over our momentary horrors. End of Chapter 3, Recording by Ashley Jane Chapter 4 of Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ashley Jane. Chapter 4, Her Habits, A Saunter I told you that I was charmed with her in most particulars. There were some ways that she did not please me so well. She was above the middle height of women. I shall begin by describing her. She was slender and wonderfully graceful, except that her movements were languid, very languid indeed. There was nothing in her appearance to indicate an invalid. Her complexion was rich and brilliant. Her features were small and beautifully formed. Her eyes large, dark and lustrous. Her hair was quite wonderful. I never saw hair so magnificently thick and long when it was down about her shoulders. I have often placed my hands under it and laughed with wonder at its weight. It was exquisitely fine and soft and in colour a rich, very dark brown with something of gold. I loved to let it down, tumbling with its own weight, as in her room she lay back in her chair talking in her sweet, low voice. I used to fold and braid it, and spread it out and play with it. Heavens, if I had but known all! I said there were particulars which did not please me. I have told you that her confidence won me the first night I saw her, but I found that she exercised with respect to herself, her mother, her history, everything in fact connected with her life, plans and people, and ever wait for 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 gar can endure with patience that her should be baffled by another. What harm could it do any one to tell me what I so ardently desired to know? Had she no trust in my good sense or honour? Why would she not believe me when I assured her so solemnly that I would not divulge one syllable of what she told me to any mortal breathing? There was a coldness, it seemed to me, beyond her years, in her smiling melancholy, persistent refusal to afford me the least ray of light. I cannot say we quarrelled upon this point, for she would not quarrel upon any. It was, of course, very unfair of me to press her, very ill-bred, but I really could not help it, and I might just as well have left 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 the armorial bearings, nor the name of their estate, nor even that of the country they lived in. They are not to suppose that I worried her incessantly on these subjects. I watched opportunity, and rather insinuated, than urged my inquiries. Once or twice, indeed, I did attack her more directly, but no matter what my tactics, utter failure was invariably the result. Reproaches and caresses were all lost upon her. But I must add this—that her evasion was conducted with so prettier melancholy and deprecation, with so many, and even passionate declarations of her liking for me, and trust in my honour, and with so many promises that I should at last know all, that I could not find it in my heart long to be offended with her. She used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me to her, and, laying her cheek to mine, marmer with her lips near my ear. Dearest, your little heart is wounded. Think me not cruel, because I obey the irresistible law of my strength and weakness. If your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. In the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live in your warm life, and you shall die, die, sweetly die, into mine. I cannot help it. As I draw near to you, you in your turn will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty, which yet is love. So for a while seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your living spirit. And when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely in her trembling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently glow upon my cheek. Her agitations and her language were unintelligible to me. From these foolish embraces, which were not a very frequent occurrence I must allow, I used to wish to extricate myself. But my energies seemed to fail me. Her murmured words sounded like a lullaby in my ear, and soothed my resistance into a trance, from which I only seemed to recover myself, when she withdrew her arms. In these mysterious moods I did not like her. I experienced a strange tumultuous excitement that was pleasurable ever and anon mingled with a vague sense of fear and disgust. I had no distinct thoughts about her while such scenes lasted, but I was conscious of a love growing into adoration, and also of abhorrence. This I know is paradox, but I can make no other attempt to explain the feeling. I now write, after an interval of more than ten years with a trembling hand, with the confused and horrible recollection of certain occurrences and situations, in the ordeal through which I was unconsciously passing, though with a vivid and very sharp remembrance of the main current of my story. But I suspect in all lives there are certain emotional scenes, those in which our passions have been most wildly and terribly roused, that are of all others the most vaguely and dimly remembered. Sometimes, after an hour of apathy, my strange and beautiful companion would take my hand and hold it with a fond pressure, renewed again and again, blushing softly, gazing in my face with languid and burning eyes, and breathing so fast that her dress rose and fell with the tumultuous respiration. It was like the adore of a lover. It embarrassed me. It was hateful and yet overpowering. And with gloating eyes she drew me to her, and her hot lips travelled along my cheek and kisses, and she would whisper almost in sobs, You are mine. You shall be mine. You and I are one for ever. Then she had thrown herself back in her chair, with her small hands over her eyes, leaving me trembling. Are we related? I used to ask. What can you mean by all this? I remind you perhaps of someone whom you love, but you must not. I hate it. I don't know who. I don't know myself when I look so and talk so. She used to sigh at my fearments. Then turn away and drop my hand. Respecting these very extraordinary manifestations, I strove in vain to form any satisfactory theory. I could not refer them to affectation or trick. It was unmistakably the momentary breaking out of suppressed instinct and emotion. Was she, notwithstanding her mother's volunteered denial, subject to brief visitations of insanity? Or was there, here, a disguise and a romance? I had read in old story-books of such things. What if a boyish lover had found his way into the house, and sought to prosecute his suit in masquerade, with the assistance of a clever old adventurer's? But there were many things against this hypothesis, highly interesting as it was to my vanity. I could boast of no little attentions such as masculine gallantry, delights to offer. Between these passionate moments there were long intervals of commonplace, of gaiety, of brooding melancholy, during which, except that I detected her eyes so full of melancholy fire, following me, at times I might have been as nothing to her. Except in these brief periods of mysterious excitement her ways were garlish, and there was always a langle about her, quite incompatible with the masculine system in a state of health. In some respects her habits were odd, perhaps not so singular in the opinion of a townlady like you as they appeared to us rustic people. She used to come down very late, generally not till one o'clock. She would then take a cup of chocolate, but eat nothing. We then went out for a walk, which was a mere saunter, and she seemed almost immediately exhausted, and either returned to the schloss, or sat on one of the benches that were placed here and there among the trees. This was a bodily langle in which her mind did not sympathise. She was always an animated talker, and very intelligent. She sometimes alluded for a moment to her own home, or mentioned an adventure or situation, or an early recollection, which indicated a people of strange manners, and described customs of which we knew nothing. I gathered from these chance hints, that her native country was much more remote than I had at first fancied. As we sat thus one afternoon under the trees a funeral passed us by. It was that of a pretty young girl whom I had often seen, the daughter of one of the rangers of the forest. The poor man was walking behind the coffin of his darling. She was his only child, and he looked quite heartbroken. Peasants walking to and to came behind. They were singing a funeral hymn. I rose to mark my respect as they passed, and joined in the hymn they were very sweetly singing. My companion shook me a little roughly, and I turned surprised. She said brusquely, Don't you perceive how discordant that is? I think it very sweet on the contrary. I answered, fext at the interruption and very uncomfortable, lest the people who composed the little procession should observe and resent what was passing. I resumed therefore instantly, and was again interrupted. You pierce my ears, said Camilla, almost angrily, and stopping her ears with her tiny fingers. Besides, how can you tell that your religion and mine are the same? Your form wounds me, and I hate funerals. What a fuss! Why you must die, everyone must die, and all are happier when they do. Come home. My father has gone on with the clergyman to the churchyard. I thought you knew she was to be buried to-day. She? I don't treble my head about peasants. I don't know who she is. Answered, Camilla, with a flash from her fine eyes. She is the poor girl who fancied she saw a ghost a fortnight ago, and has been dying ever since, till yesterday, when she expired. Tell me nothing about ghosts. I shan't sleep to-night if you do. I hope there is no plague or fever coming. All this looks very like it, I continued. The swine-herd's young wife died only a week ago, and she thought something seized her by the throat as she lay in her bed, and nearly strangled her. Papa says such horrible fancies do accompany some forms of fever. She was quite well the day before. She sank afterwards, and died before a week. Well, her funeral is over, I hope, and her hymn sung, and our ears shan't be tortured with that discord and jargon. It has made me nervous. Sit down here beside me. Sit close. Hold my hand. Press it hard, hard, harder. We had moved a little back, and had come to another seat. She sat down. Her face underwent a change that alarmed and even terrified me for a moment. It darkened, and became horribly livid. Her teeth and hands were clenched, and she frowned and compressed her lips, while she stared down upon the ground at her feet, and trembled all over with a continued shudder as irrepressible as agieu. All her energies seemed strained to suppress the fit, with which she was then breathlessly tugging, and at length a low convulsive cry of suffering broke from her, and gradually the hysteria subsided. There, that comes of strangling people with hymns, she said at last. Hold me. Hold me still. It is passing away. And so gradually it did. And perhaps to dissipate the somber impression which the spectacle had left upon me, she became unusually animated and chatty. And so we got home. This was the first time I had seen her exhibit any definable symptoms of that delicacy of health which her mother had spoken of. It was the first time, also, I had seen her exhibit anything like temper. Both passed away like a summer cloud, and never but once afterwards did I witness on her part a momentary sign of anger. I will tell you how it happened. She and I were looking out of one of the long drawing-room windows, when there entered the courtyard over the drawbridge a figure of a wanderer whom I knew very well. He used to visit the Schloss generally twice a year. It was the figure of a hunchback with the sharp lean features that generally accompany deformity. He wore a pointed black beard and he was smiling from ear to ear, showing his white fangs. He was dressed in buff, black and scarlet, and crossed with more straps and belts than I could count, from which hung all manner of things. Behind he carried a magic lantern and two boxes which I well knew, in one of which was a salamander and in the other a mandrake. These monsters used to make my father laugh. They were compounded of parts of monkeys, parrots, squirrels, fish, and hedgehogs. Dried and stitched together with great neatness and startling effect. He had a fiddle, a box of conjuring apparatus, a pair of foils and masks attached to his belt, several other mysterious cases dangling about him, and a black staff with copper ferrules in his hand. He was accompanied with a rough-spare dog that followed at his heels, but stopped short. Suspiciously at the drawbridge and in a little while began to howl dismally. In the meantime the mount-bank, standing in the mists of the courtyard, raised his grotesque hat, and made us a very ceremonious bow, paying his compliments very volubly, in execrable French and German not much better. Then, disengaging his fiddle, he began to scrape a lively air to which he sang with a merry discord, dancing with ludicrous airs and activity that made me laugh in spite of the dog's howling. Then he advanced to the window with many smiles and salutations, and his hat in his left hand, his fiddle under his arm, and with a fluency that never took breath, he gabbled a long advertisement of all his accomplishments, and the resources of the various arts which he placed at our service, and the curiosities and entertainments which it was in his power at our bidding to display. Will your ladyships be pleased to buy an amulet against the upire 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 pin to the pillow, and you may laugh in his face. These charms consisted of oblong slips of vellum, with cabalistic ciphers and diagrams upon them. Carmilla instantly purchased one, and so did I. He was looking up, and we were smiling down upon him, amused. At least I can answer for myself. His piercing black eye, as he looked up in our faces, seemed to detect something that fixed for a moment his curiosity. In an instant he unrolled a leather case full of a manner of odd little steel instruments. See here, my lady, he said, displaying it and addressing me. I profess, among other things, less useful, the art of dentistry. Plague take the dog, he interpolated. Silence, beast! He howls so that your lady's ships 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 am I file, my punch, my nippers. I will make it round and blunt if her lady's ship pleases. No longer the tooth of a fish, but of a beautiful young lady as she is. Hey! Is the young lady displeased? Have I been too bold? Have I offended her? The young lady, indeed, looked very angry as she drew back from the window. How dares that mount back insult her so? Where is your father? I shall demand redress from him. My father would have had the wretch tied up to the pump, and flogged with a cart whip, and burnt to the bones with the cattle-brand. She retired from the window a step or two, and sat down, and had hardly lost sight of the offender, when her wrath subsided as suddenly as it had risen, and she gradually recovered her usual tone, and seemed to forget the little hunchback and his follies. My father was out of spirits that evening. On coming in he told us that there had been another case very similar to the two fatal ones which had lately occurred. The sister of a young peasant on his estate, only a mile away, was very ill, had been, as she described it, attacked very nearly in the same way, and was now slowly but steadily sinking. All this, said my father, is strictly referable to natural causes. These poor people infect one another with their superstitions, and so repeat in imagination the images of terror that have infested their neighbours. But that very circumstance frightens one horribly, said Carmilla. How so? inquired my father. I am so afraid of fanciing I see such things. I think it would be as bad as reality. We are in God's hands. Nothing can happen without his permission, and all will end well for those who love him. He is our faithful creator. He has made us all, and will take care of us. Creator! Nature! said the young lady in answer to my gentle father. And this disease that invades the country is natural. Nature! All things proceed from nature, don't they? All things in heaven, in the earth, and under the earth, act and live as nature ordains. I think so. The doctor said he would come here today, said my father after a silence. I want to know what he thinks about it, and what he thinks we had better do. Doctor's never did me any good, said Carmilla. Then have you been ill? I asked. More ill than ever you are, she answered. Long ago? Yes, a long time. I suffered from this very illness. But I forget all my pains and weakness, and they were not so bad as I suffered in other diseases. You were very young then, I daresay. Let us not talk more of it. You would not wound a friend. She looked languidly in my eyes, and passed her arm round my waist lovingly, and led me out of the room. My father was busy over some papers near the window. Why does your papa like to frighten us? said the pretty girl with a sigh and a little shudder. He doesn't, dear Carmilla. It is the very furthest thing from his mind. Are you afraid, dearest? I should be very much if I fancied there was any real danger of my being attacked as those poor people were. You are afraid to die? Yes, everyone is. But to die, as lovers may, to die together, so that they may live together. Girls are caterpillars while they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes. But in the meantime there are grubs and larvae. Don't you see? Eat with their peculiar propensities, necessities, and structure. The so-sais monsure perform in his big book in the next room. Later in the day the doctor came and was closeted with papa for some time. He was a skilful man of sixty and upwards. He wore powder and shaved his pale face as smooth as a pumpkin. He and papa emerged from the room together, and I heard papa laugh and say as they came out. Well, I do wonder at a wise man like you. What do you say to hippogriffs and dragons? The doctor was smiling and made answer shaking his head. Nevertheless, life and death are mysterious states, and we know little of the resources of either. And so they walked on, and I heard no more. I did not then know what the doctor had been broaching, but I think I guess it now. End of Chapter 4. Recording by Ashley Jane. Chapter 5 of Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Lefannu. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ashley Jane. Chapter 5. A Wonderful Likeness. This evening there arrived from Gratz, the grave, dark-faced son of the picture cleaner, with a horse and cart laden with two large packing cases, having many pictures in each. It was a journey of ten leagues, and whenever a messenger arrived at the schloss from our little capital of Gratz, we used to crowd about him in the hall to hear the news. This arrival created in our secluded quarters quite a sensation. The cases remained in the hall, and the messenger was taken charge of by the servants till he had eaten his supper. Then, with assistance, and armed with hammer, ripping chisel, and turnscrew, he met us in the hall, where he had assembled to witness the unpacking of the cases. Carmilla sat looking listlessly on, while one after the other the old pictures, nearly all portraits which had undergone the process of renovation, were brought to light. My mother was of an old Hungarian family, and most of these pictures, which were about to be restored to their places, had come to us through her. My father had a list in his hand from which he read, as the artist rummaged out the corresponding numbers. I don't know that the pictures were very good, but they were undoubtedly very old, and some of them very curious also. They had, for the most part, the merit of being now seen by me. I may say, for the first time, for the smoke and dust of time had all but obliterated them. This is a picture 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, Marsha Karnstein, and the date 1698. And I'm curious to see how it has turned out. I remembered it. It was a small picture, about a foot and a half high and nearly square without a frame, but it was so blackened by age that I could not make it out. The artist now produced it, with evident pride. It was quite beautiful. It was startling. It seemed to live. It was the effigy of Carmilla. Carmilla, dear, here is an absolute miracle. Here you are, living, smiling, ready to speak, in this picture. Isn't it beautiful, papa? And see, even little mole on her throat. My father laughed and said, certainly it is a wonderful likeness. But he looked away, and to my surprised, seemed to be little struck by it, and went on talking to the picture-cleaner, who was also something of an artist, and discourse with intelligence about the portraits of 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, he said, smiling. I'm very glad you think it's so like. It must be prettier, even than I thought it, if it is. The young lady did not acknowledge this pretty speech, did not seem to hear it. She was leaning back in her seat, her fine eyes under their long lashes, gazing on me in contemplation, and she smiled in a kind of rapture. And now you can read quite plainly the name that is written in the corner. It is not Marsha. It looks as if it were done in gold. The name is Marcala, Countess Carnstein. And this is a little coronet over and underneath A.D. 1698. I am descended from the Carnsteens. That is, Mamar was. Ah! said the lady languidly. So am I, I think. A very long descent, very ancient. Are there any Carnsteens living now? None who bear the name, I believe. The family were ruined I believe in some civil wars long ago, but the ruins of the castle are only about three miles away. How interesting! she said languidly. But see what beautiful moonlight! She glanced through the hall door, which stood a little open. Suppose you take a little ramble round the court, and look down at the road and river. It is so like the night you came to us, I said. She sighed, smiling. She rose, and each with her arm about the other's waist we walked out upon the pavement. In silence, slowly, we walked down to the drawbridge, where the beautiful landscape opened before us. And so you were thinking of the night I came here. She almost whispered, are you glad I came? Delighted, dear Camilla, 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, Camilla, 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, Camilla, you have been in love. That there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on. I have been in love with no one, and never shall. She whispered, unless it should be with you. How beautiful she looked in the moonlight! Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled. Her soft cheek was glowing against mine. Darling, darling, she murmured, I live in you, and you would die for me. I love you so. I started from her. She was gazing on me with eyes from which all fire, all meaning, had flown, and a face colourless and apathetic. Is there a chill in the air, dear? She said drowsily. I almost shiver. Have I been dreaming? Let us come in. Come, come, come in. You look ill, Camilla. A little faint. You certainly must take some wine, I said. Yes, I will. I am better now. I shall be quite well in a few minutes. Yes, do give me some wine," answered Camilla 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, Camilla? Are you really better? I asked. I was beginning to take alarm, lest she should have been stricken with the strange epidemic that they said had invaded the country about us. Papa would be grieved beyond measure, I added, if he thought you were ever so little ill without immediately letting us know. We have a very skillful doctor near us, the physician who was with Papa today. I am 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 fought us, and I become as you have just seen me. But, after all, I am very easily set up again. In the moment I am perfectly myself, see how I have recovered. So indeed she had, and she and I talked a great deal, and very animated she was, and the remainder of that evening passed without any recurrence of what I called her infatuations. I mean her crazy talk and looks which embarrassed and even frightened me. But there occurred that night an event which gave my thoughts quite a new turn, and seemed to startle even Carmilla's languid nature into momentary energy. Chapter 6 of Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Lefannu This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ashley Jane. Chapter 6. A Very Strange Agony When we got into the drawing room, and had sat down to our coffee and chocolate, although Carmilla did not take any, she seemed quite herself again, and Madame and Mademoiselle de la Fontaine joined us, and made a little card-party, in the course of which Papa came in for what he called his dish of tea. When the game was over, he sat down beside Carmilla on the sofa, and asked her, a little anxiously, whether she had heard from her mother since her arrival. She answered, no. He then asked whether she knew where a letter would reach her at present. I cannot tell. She answered ambiguously. But I have been thinking of leaving you. You have been already too hospitable, and too kind to me. I have given you an infinity of trouble, and I should wish to take a carriage to-morrow, and post in pursuit of her. I know where I shall ultimately find her, although I dare not yet tell you. But you must not dream of any such thing, exclaimed my father, to my great relief. We can't afford to lose you so, and I won't consent to your leaving us except under the care of your mother, who was so good as to consent to your remaining with us till she should herself return. I should be quite happy if I knew that you had heard from her. But this evening the accounts of the progress of the mysterious disease that has invaded our neighborhood grow even more alarming. And, my beautiful guest, I do feel the responsibility unaided by advice from your mother very much. But I shall do my best, and one thing is certain, that you must not think of leaving us without her distinct direction to that effect. We should suffer too much imparting from you to consent to it easily. Thank you, sir, a thousand times for your hospitality," she answered, smiling bashfully. You have all been too kind to me. I have seldom been so happy in all my life before, as in your beautiful chateau, under your care, and in the society of your dear daughter. So he gallantly, in his old-fashioned way, kissed her hand, smiling, and pleased at her little speech. I accompanied Carmilla as usual to her room, and sat and chatted with her while she was preparing for bed. Do you think, I said at length, that you will ever confide fully in me? She turned round smiling, but made no answer, only continued to smile on me. You won't answer that, I said. You can't answer pleasantly, I ought not to have asked you. You were quite right to ask me that, or anything. You do not know how dear you are to me, or you could not think any confidence too great to look for, but I am under vows, know none half so awfully, and I dare not tell my story yet even to you. The time is very near when you shall know everything. You will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish, the more ardent, the more selfish. How jealous I am you cannot know. You must come with me, loving me to death, or else hate me, and still come with me, and hating me through death, and after. There is no such word as indifference in my apathetic nature. Now, Carmilla, you were going to talk your wild nonsense again, I said hastily. Not I, silly little fool as I am, and full of whims and fancies. For your sake I'll talk like a sage. Were you ever at a ball? No. How you do run on. What is it like? How charming it must be. I almost forget. It is years ago. I laughed. You are not so old. Your first ball can hardly be forgotten yet. I remember everything about it. With an effort. I see it all. As divers see what is going on above them through a medium, dense, rippling, but transparent. There occurred that night what has confused the picture and made its colors faint. I was all but assassinated in my bed, wounded here. She touched her breast, and never was the same since. Were you near dying? Yes. Very. A cruel love. Strange love that would have taken my life. Love will have its sacrifices. No sacrifice without blood. Let us go to sleep now, I feel so lazy. How can I get up just now and lock my door? She was lying with her tiny hands buried in her rich wavy hair, under her cheek, her little head upon the pillow, and her glittering eyes followed me wherever I moved, with a kind of shy smile that I could not decipher. I bid her good night, and crept from the room with an uncomfortable sensation. I often wondered whether our pretty guest ever said her prayers. I certainly had never seen her upon her knees. In the morning she never came down until long after our family prayers were over, and at night she never left the drawing-room to attend our brief evening prayers in the hall. If it had not been that it had casually come out in one of our careless talks that she had been baptized, I should have doubted her being a Christian. Religion was a subject on which I had never heard her speak a word. If I had known the world better, this particular neglect, or antipathy, would not have so much surprised me. The precautions of nervous people are infectious, and persons of a like temperament are pretty sure, after a time, to imitate them. I had adopted Carmilla's habit of locking her bedroom door, having taken into my head all her whimsical alarms about midnight invaders and prowling assassins. I had also adopted her precaution of making a brief search through her room to satisfy herself that no lurking assassin or rubber 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 dark and light ones, and their persons make their exits and their entrances as they please, and laugh at locksmiths. I had a dream that night that was the beginning of a very strange agony. I cannot call it a nightmare, for I was quite conscious of being asleep. But I was equally conscious of being in my room and lying in bed precisely as I actually was. I saw, or fancied I saw, the room and its furniture just as I had seen it last, except that it was very dark, and I saw something moving round the foot of the bed which at first I could not accurately distinguish. But I soon saw that it was a sorty black animal that resembled a monstrous cat. It appeared to me about four or five feet long, for it measured fully the length of the heart rug as it passed over it. And it continued, to-ing and fro-ing, with the lithe sinister restlessness of a beast in a cage. I could not cry out, although, as you may suppose, I was terrified. Its pace was growing faster, and the room rapidly darker and darker, and at length so dark that I could no longer see anything of it but its eyes. I felt its ring lightly on the bed. The two broad eyes approached my face, and suddenly I felt a stinging pain as if two large needles darted an inch or two apart deep into my breast. I waked with a scream. The room was lighted by the candle that burnt there all through the night, and I saw a female figure standing at the foot of the bed, a little at the right side. It was in a dark loose dress, and its hair was down and covered its shoulders. A block of stone could not have been more still. There was not the slightest stir of respiration. As I stared at it, the figure appeared to have changed its place, and was now nearer the door. Then, close to it, the door opened, and it passed out. I was now relieved and able to breathe and move. My first thought was that Carmilla had been playing me a trick, and that I had forgotten to secure my door. I hastened to it, and found it locked as usual on the inside. I was afraid to open it. I was horrified. I sprang into my bed and covered my head up in the bed clothes, and lay there more dead than alive till morning. End of Chapter 6. Recording by Ashley Jane. Chapter 7 of Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ashley Jane. Chapter 7. Descending. It would be vain my attempting to tell you the horror with which, even now, I recall the occurrence of that night. It was no such transitory terror as a dream leaves behind it. It seemed to deepen by time, and communicated itself to the room, and the very furniture that had encompassed the apparition. I could not bear the next day to be alone for a moment. I should have told Papa, but for two opposite reasons. At one time I thought he would laugh at my story, and I could not bear its being treated as a jest. And at another I thought he might fancy that I had been attacked by the mysterious complaint which had invaded our neighbourhood. I had myself no misgiving of the kind, and as he had been rather an invalid for some time I was afraid of alarming him. I was comfortable enough with my good-natured companions, Madame Peridon, and the vivacious Madame Waselle Lafontaine. They both perceived that I was out of spirit and nervous, and at length I told them what lay so heavy at my heart. Madame Waselle laughed, and I fancied that Madame Peridon looked anxious. Appy the bye! said Madame Waselle, laughing. The long lime tree walk behind Carmilla's bedroom window is haunted. Nonsense! exclaimed Madame, who probably thought the theme rather inopportune. And who tells that story, my dear? Martin says that he came up twice when the old yard gate was being repaired before sunrise, and twice saw the same female figure walking down the lime tree avenue. So he well might, as long as there are cows to milk in the river-fields, said Madame. I dare say. But Martin chooses to be frightened, and never did I see fall more frightened. You must not say a word about it to Carmilla, because she can see down that walk from her room window, I interposed, and she is, if possible, a greater coward than I. Carmilla came down rather later than usual that day. I was so frightened last night. She said, as soon as we 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 the charm, and the moment my fingers touched it the figure disappeared, and I felt quite certain, only that I had it by me that something frightful would have made its appearance, and perhaps throttled me, as it did those poor people we heard of. Well, listen to me! I began and recounted my adventure at the recital of which she appeared horrified. And had you the charm near you? She asked earnestly. No, I had dropped it into a china vase in the drawing-room, but I shall certainly take it with me 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 distinctly that I pinned the charm to my pillow. I fell asleep almost immediately, and slept even more soundly than usual all night. Next night I passed as well. My sleep was delightfully deep and dreamless. But I wakened with a sense of lassitude and melancholy, which, however, did not exceed a degree that was almost luxurious. Well, I told you so, said Carmilla, when I described my quiet sleep. I had such delight for sleep myself last night. I pinned the charm to the breast of my nightdress. It was too far away the night before. I am quite sure it was all fancy except the dreams. I used to think that evil spirits made dreams, but our doctor told me it is no such thing. Only a fever passing by, or some other malady as they often do, he said, knocks at the door and not being able to get in passes on with that alarm. And what do you think the charm is? said I. It has been fumigated or immersed in some drug and is an antidote against the malaria, she answered. Then it acts only on the body? Certainly. You don't suppose that evil spirits are frightened by bits of ribbon or the perfumes of a drugist'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 linger weighed upon me all day. I felt myself a changed girl. A strange melancholy was stealing over me, a melancholy that I would not have interrupted. Tim 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 even more devoted to me than ever, and her strange paroxysms of languid adoration more frequent. She used to gloat on me with increasing ardor, the more my strength and spirit waned. This always shocked me like a momentary glare of insanity. Without knowing it, I was now in a pretty advanced stage of the strangest illness under which mortal ever suffered. There was an unaccountable fascination in its earlier symptoms that more than reconciled me to the incapacitating effect of that stage of the malady. This fascination increased for a time until it reached a certain point when gradually a sense of the horrible mingot itself with it deepening as usual here until it discoloured and perverted the whole state of my life. The first change I experienced was rather agreeable. It was very near the turning point from which began the descent of Avernus. Certain vague and strange sensations visited me in my sleep. The prevailing one was of that pleasant peculiar cold thrill which we feel in bathing when we move against the current of a river. This was soon accompanied by dreams that seemed interminable and were so vague that I could never recollect their scenery and persons or any one connected portion of their action. But they left an awful impression and a sense of exhaustion as if I had passed through a long period of great mental exertion and danger. After all these dreams there remained on waking a remembrance of having been in a place very nearly dark and of having spoken to people whom I could not see, and especially of one clear voice, of a females 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 worn lips kissed me and longer and longer and more lovingly as they reached my throat. But there the caress fixed itself. My heart beat faster, my breathing rose and fell rapidly and full drawn. A sobbing that rose into a sense of strangulation supervened and turned into a dreadful convulsion in which my senses left me and I became unconscious. It was now three weeks since the commencement of this unaccountable state. My sufferings had during the last week told upon my appearance. I had grown pale, my eyes were dilated and darkened underneath, and the languor which I had long felt began to display itself in my countenance. My father asked me often whether I was ill, but with an obstinacy which now seems to me unaccountable, I persisted in assuring him that I was quite well. In a sense this was the truth. I had no pain. I could complain of no bodily derangement. My complaints 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 Upaya, for I had now been suffering for three weeks, and they were seldom ill for much more than three days when death put an end to their miseries. Carmilla complained of dreams and feverish sensations, but by no means of so alarming a kind as mine. I say that mine were extremely alarming. Had I been capable of comprehending my condition, I would have invoked aid and advice on my knees. The narcotic of an unsuspected influence was acting upon me, and my perceptions were benumbed. I am going to tell you now of a dream that led immediately to an odd discovery. One night, instead of the voice I was accustomed to hear in the dark, I heard one, sweet and tender, and at the same time terrible, which said, Your mother warns you to beware of the assassin. At the same time a light unexpectedly sprang up, and I saw Carmilla standing near the foot of my bed in her white night-dress, bathed from her chin to her feet in one great stain of blood. I wakened with a shriek, possessed with the one idea that Carmilla was being murdered. I remember springing from my bed, and my next recollection is that of standing on the lobby, crying for help. Madame and Madame Waselle came scurrying out of their rooms in alarm. A lamp burned always on the lobby, and seeing me they soon learned the cause of my terror. I insisted on our knocking on Carmilla's door. Our knocking was unanswered. It soon became a pounding and an uproar. We shrieked her name, but all was vain. We all grew frightened for the door was locked. We hurried back in panic to my room. There we rang the bell long and furiously. If my father's room had been at that side of the house we would have called him up at once to our aid. But alas! he was quite out of hearing, and to reach him involved an excursion for which we none of us had courage. Servants, however, soon came running up the stairs. I had got on my dressing gown and slippers meanwhile, and my companions were already similarly furnished. Recognizing the voices of the servants on the lobby, we salad 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 stored, 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. End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 of Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ashley Jane. Chapter 8. Search. At sight of the room, perfectly undisturbed except for our violent entrance, we began to call a little, and soon recovered our senses sufficiently to dismiss the men. It had struck Madame Waselle that possibly Carmilla had been awakened by the uproar at her door, and in her first panic had jumped from her bed, and hid herself in a press or behind a curtain, from which she could not, of course, emerge until the major domo and his mermidans had withdrawn. We now recommended our search and began to call her name again. It was all to no purpose. Our perplexity and agitation increased. We examined the windows, but they were secured. I implored of Carmilla if she had concealed herself to play this crawl-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 the side. She could not have passed it. I was by this time convinced that she was not in the room, nor in the dressing-room, the door of which was still locked on this side. She could not have passed it. I was utterly puzzled. Had Carmilla discovered one of those secret passages which the old housekeeper said were known to exist in the Schloss, although the tradition of their exact situation had been lost. A little time would no doubt explain all utterly perplexed as for the present we were. It was past four o'clock, and I preferred passing the remaining hours of darkness in Madame's room. Daylight brought no solution of the difficulty. The whole household, with my father at its head, was in a state of agitation next morning. Every part of the chateau was searched. The grounds were explored. No trace of the missing lady could be discovered. The stream was about to be dragged. My father was in distraction. What a tale to have to tell the poor girl's mother on her return. I, too, was almost beside myself, though my grief was quite of a different kind. The morning was past in alarm and excitement. It was now one o'clock, and still no tidings. I ran up to Carmilla's room and found her standing at her dressing-table. I was astounded. I could not believe my eyes. She beckoned me to her with her pretty finger in silence. Her face expressed extreme fear. I ran to her in an ecstasy of joy. I kissed and embraced her again and again. I ran to the bell and rang it fearmantly, to bring others to the spot who might at once relieve my father's anxiety. "'Dear Carmilla, what has become of you all this time? We have been in agonies of anxiety about you,' I exclaimed. "'Where have you been? How did you come back?' "'Last night has been a night of wonders,' she said. "'For mercy's sake, explain all you can.' It was past two last night,' she said. When I went to sleep, as usual, in my bed, with my doors locked, that of the dressing-room and that opening upon the gallery. My sleep was uninterrupted and, so far as I know, dreamless. But I woke just now on the sofa in the dressing-room there, and I found the doors between the rooms open and the other door forced. How could all this have happened without my being wakened? It must have 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 being interrupted? I, whom the slightest stir, startles. By this time, Madame, Madame Waselle, my father, and a number of servants were in the room. Carmilla was, of course, overwhelmed with inquiries, congratulations and welcomes. She had but one story to tell, and seemed the least able of all the party to suggest any way of accounting for what had happened. My father took a turn up and down the room, thinking. I saw Carmilla's eye follow him for a moment with a sly, dark glance. When my father had sent the servants away, Madame Waselle having gone in search of a little bottle of Valyrian and salvolatile, and there being no one now in the room with Carmilla except my father, Madame, and myself, he came to her thoughtfully, took her hand very kindly, led her to the sofa, and sat down beside her. Will you forgive me, my dear? If I risk a conjecture and ask a question, who can have a better right? She said, ask what you please. And I will tell you everything. But my story is simply one of bewilderment and darkness. I know absolutely nothing. Put any question you please, but you know, of course, the limitations Mamar has placed me under. Perfectly, my dear child, I need not approach the topics on which she desires our silence. Now the marvel of last night consists in your having been removed from your bed and your room without being wakened, and this removal having occurred apparently while the windows were still secured, and the two doors locked upon the side. I will tell you my theory and ask you a question. Camilla was leaning on her hand dejectedly. Madame and I were listening breathlessly. Now, my question is this. Have you ever been suspected of walking in your sleep? Never, since I was very young indeed. But you did walk in your sleep when you were young? Yes, I know I did. I have been told so often by my old nurse. My father smiled and nodded. Well, what has happened is this. You got up in your sleep, unlocked the door, not leaving the key as usual in the lock, but taking it out and locking it on the outside. You again took the key out and carried it away with you to some one of the five and twenty rooms on this floor, or perhaps upstairs or downstairs. There are so many rooms and closets, so much heavy furniture, and such accumulations of lumber, that it would require a week to search this old house thoroughly. Do you see now what I mean? I do. But not all, she answered. And help her, Pa! Do you account for 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 anyone else. I wish all mysteries were as easily and innocently explained as yours, Carmilla. He said, laughing. And so we may congratulate ourselves on the certainty that the most natural explanation of the occurrence is one that involves no drugging, no tampering with locks, no burglars or poisoners or witches, nothing that need alarm Carmilla or anyone else for our safety. Carmilla was looking charmingly. Nothing could be more beautiful than her tints. Her beauty was, I think, enhanced by that graceful langa 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.