Carmilla

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

Copyright 1872

Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER I. An Early Fright
CHAPTER II. A Guest
CHAPTER III. We Compare Notes
CHAPTER IV. Her Habits—A Saunter
CHAPTER V. A Wonderful Likeness
CHAPTER VI. A Very Strange Agony
CHAPTER VII. Descending
CHAPTER VIII. Search
CHAPTER IX. The Doctor
CHAPTER X. Bereaved
CHAPTER XI. The Story
CHAPTER XII. A Petition
CHAPTER XIII. The Woodman
CHAPTER XIV. The Meeting

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CHAPTER XV. Ordeal and Execution
CHAPTER XVI. Conclusion

PROLOGUE
Upon a paper attached to the Narrative which follows,
Doctor Hesselius has written a rather elaborate note, which
he accompanies with a reference to his Essay on the strange
subject which the MS. illuminates.
This mysterious subject he treats, in that Essay, with his
usual learning and acumen, and with remarkable directness
and condensation. It will form but one volume of the series of
that extraordinary man’s collected papers.
As I publish the case, in this volume, simply to interest the
“laity,” I shall forestall the intelligent lady, who relates it, in
nothing; and after due consideration, I have determined,
therefore, to abstain from presenting any précis of the learned
Doctor’s reasoning, or extract from his statement on a subject
which he describes as “involving, not improbably, some of
the profoundest arcana of our dual existence, and its
intermediates.”
I was anxious on discovering this paper, to reopen the
correspondence commenced by Doctor Hesselius, so many
years before, with a person so clever and careful as his
informant seems to have been. Much to my regret, however, I
found that she had died in the interval.

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 She, probably, could have added little to the Narrative
which she communicates in the following pages, with, so far
as I can pronounce, such conscientious particularity.

I.
An Early Fright
In Styria, we, though by no means magnificent people,
inhabit a castle, or schloss. A small income, in that part of the
world, goes a great way. Eight or nine hundred a year does
wonders. Scantily enough ours would have answered among
wealthy people at home. My father is English, and I bear an
English name, although I never saw England. But here, in
this lonely and primitive place, where everything is so
marvelously cheap, I really don’t see how ever so much more
money would at all materially add to our comforts, or even
luxuries.
My father was in the Austrian service, and retired upon a
pension and his patrimony, and purchased this feudal
residence, and the small estate on which it stands, a bargain.
Nothing can be more picturesque or solitary. It stands on a
slight eminence in a forest. The road, very old and narrow,
passes in front of its drawbridge, never raised in my time, and
its moat, stocked with perch, and sailed over by many swans,
and floating on its surface white fleets of water lilies.
Over all this the schloss shows its many-windowed front;
its towers, and its Gothic chapel.
The forest opens in an irregular and very picturesque glade
before its gate, and at the right a steep Gothic bridge carries
the road over a stream that winds in deep shadow through the
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wood. I have said that this is a very lonely place. Judge
whether I say truth. Looking from the hall door towards the
road, the forest in which our castle stands extends fifteen
miles to the right, and twelve to the left. The nearest
inhabited village is about seven of your English miles to the
left. The nearest inhabited schloss of any historic
associations, is that of old General Spielsdorf, nearly twenty
miles away to the right.
I have said “the nearest inhabited village,” because there is,
only three miles westward, that is to say in the direction of
General Spielsdorf’s schloss, a ruined village, with its quaint
little church, now roofless, in the aisle of which are the
moldering tombs of the proud family of Karnstein, now
extinct, who once owned the equally desolate chateau which,
in the thick of the forest, overlooks the silent ruins of the
town.
Respecting the cause of the desertion of this striking and
melancholy spot, there is a legend which I shall relate to you
another time.
I must tell you now, how very small is the party who
constitute the inhabitants of our castle. I don’t include
servants, or those dependents who occupy rooms in the
buildings attached to the schloss. Listen, and wonder! My
father, who is the kindest man on earth, but growing old; and
I, at the date of my story, only nineteen. Eight years have
passed since then.
I and my father constituted the family at the schloss. My
mother, a Styrian lady, died in my infancy, but I had a good-
natured governess, who had been with me from, I might
almost say, my infancy. I could not remember the time when

4
her fat, benignant face was not a familiar picture in my
memory.
This was Madame Perrodon, a native of Berne, whose care
and good nature now in part supplied to me the loss of my
mother, whom I do not even remember, so early I lost her.
She made a third at our little dinner party. There was a fourth,
Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, a lady such as you term, I
believe, a “finishing governess.” She spoke French and
German, Madame Perrodon French and broken English, to
which my father and I added English, which, partly to
prevent its becoming a lost language among us, and partly
from patriotic motives, we spoke every day. The consequence
was a Babel, at which strangers used to laugh, and which I
shall make no attempt to reproduce in this narrative. And
there were two or three young lady friends besides, pretty
nearly of my own age, who were occasional visitors, for
longer or shorter terms; and these visits I sometimes returned.
These were our regular social resources; but of course there
were chance visits from “neighbors” of only five or six
leagues distance. My life was, notwithstanding, rather a
solitary one, I can assure you.
My gouvernantes had just so much control over me as you
might conjecture such sage persons would have in the case of
a rather spoiled girl, whose only parent allowed her pretty
nearly her own way in everything.
The first occurrence in my existence, which produced a
terrible impression upon my mind, which, in fact, never has
been effaced, was one of the very earliest incidents of my life
which I can recollect. Some people will think it so trifling
that it should not be recorded here. You will see, however,
by-and-by, why I mention it. The nursery, as it was called,
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though I had it all to myself, was a large room in the upper
story of the castle, with a steep oak roof. I can’t have been
more than six years old, when one night I awoke, and looking
round the room from my bed, failed to see the nursery maid.
Neither was my nurse there; and I thought myself alone. I
was not frightened, for I was one of those happy children
who are studiously kept in ignorance of ghost stories, of fairy
tales, and of all such lore as makes us cover up our heads
when the door cracks suddenly, or the flicker of an expiring
candle makes the shadow of a bedpost dance upon the wall,
nearer to our faces. I was vexed and insulted at finding
myself, as I conceived, neglected, and I began to whimper,
preparatory to a hearty bout of roaring; when to my surprise,
I saw a solemn, but very pretty face looking at me from the
side of the bed. It was that of a young lady who was kneeling,
with her hands under the coverlet. I looked at her with a kind
of pleased wonder, and ceased whimpering. She caressed me
with her hands, and lay down beside me on the bed, and drew
me towards her, smiling; I felt immediately delightfully
soothed, and fell asleep again. I was wakened by a sensation
as if two needles ran into my breast very deep at the same
moment, and I cried loudly. The lady started back, with her
eyes fixed on me, and then slipped down upon the floor, and,
as I thought, hid herself under the bed.
I was now for the first time frightened, and I yelled with all
my might and main. Nurse, nursery maid, housekeeper, all
came running in, and hearing my story, they made light of it,
soothing me all they could meanwhile. But, child as I was, I
could perceive that their faces were pale with an unwonted
look of anxiety, and I saw them look under the bed, and about
the room, and peep under tables and pluck open cupboards;
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and the housekeeper whispered to the nurse: “Lay your hand
along that hollow in the bed; someone did lie there, so sure as
you did not; the place is still warm.”
I remember the nursery maid petting me, and all three
examining my chest, where I told them I felt the puncture,
and pronouncing that there was no sign visible that any such
thing had happened to me.
The housekeeper and the two other servants who were in
charge of the nursery, remained sitting up all night; and from
that time a servant always sat up in the nursery until I was
about fourteen.
I was very nervous for a long time after this. A doctor was
called in, he was pallid and elderly. How well I remember his
long saturnine face, slightly pitted with smallpox, and his
chestnut wig. For a good while, every second day, he came
and gave me medicine, which of course I hated.
The morning after I saw this apparition I was in a state of
terror, and could not bear to be left alone, daylight though it
was, for a moment.
I remember my father coming up and standing at the
bedside, and talking cheerfully, and asking the nurse a
number of questions, and laughing very heartily at one of the
answers; and patting me on the shoulder, and kissing me, and
telling me not to be frightened, that it was nothing but a
dream and could not hurt me.
But I was not comforted, for I knew the visit of the strange
woman was not a dream; and I was awfully frightened.
I was a little consoled by the nursery maid’s assuring me
that it was she who had come and looked at me, and lain
down beside me in the bed, and that I must have been half-
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dreaming not to have known her face. But this, though
supported by the nurse, did not quite satisfy me.
I remembered, in the course of that day, a venerable old
man, in a black cassock, coming into the room with the nurse
and housekeeper, and talking a little to them, and very kindly
to me; his face was very sweet and gentle, and he told me
they were going to pray, and joined my hands together, and
desired me to say, softly, while they were praying, “Lord
hear all good prayers for us, for Jesus’ sake.” I think these
were the very words, for I often repeated them to myself, and
my nurse used for years to make me say them in my prayers.
I remembered so well the thoughtful sweet face of that
white-haired old man, in his black cassock, as he stood in that
rude, lofty, brown room, with the clumsy furniture of a
fashion three hundred years old about him, and the scanty
light entering its shadowy atmosphere through the small
lattice. He kneeled, and the three women with him, and he
prayed aloud with an earnest quavering voice for, what
appeared to me, a long time. I forget all my life preceding
that event, and for some time after it is all obscure also, but
the scenes I have just described stand out vivid as the isolated
pictures of the phantasmagoria surrounded by darkness.
II.
A Guest
I am now going to tell you something so strange that it will
require all your faith in my veracity to believe my story. It is
not only true, nevertheless, but truth of which I have been an
eyewitness.

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 It was a sweet summer evening, and my father asked me,
as he sometimes did, to take a little ramble with him along
that beautiful forest vista which I have mentioned as lying in
front of the schloss.
“General Spielsdorf cannot come to us so soon as I had
hoped,” said my father, as we pursued our walk.
He was to have paid us a visit of some weeks, and we had
expected his arrival next day. He was to have brought with
him a young lady, his niece and ward, Mademoiselle
Rheinfeldt, whom I had never seen, but whom I had heard
described as a very charming girl, and in whose society I had
promised myself many happy days. I was more disappointed
than a young lady living in a town, or a bustling
neighborhood can possibly imagine. This visit, and the new
acquaintance it promised, had furnished my day dream for
many weeks.
“And how soon does he come?” I asked.
“Not till autumn. Not for two months, I dare say,” he
answered. “And I am very glad now, dear, that you never
knew Mademoiselle Rheinfeldt.”
“And why?” I asked, both mortified and curious.
“Because the poor young lady is dead,” he replied. “I quite
forgot I had not told you, but you were not in the room when
I received the General’s letter this evening.”
I was very much shocked. General Spielsdorf had
mentioned in his first letter, six or seven weeks before, that
she was not so well as he would wish her, but there was
nothing to suggest the remotest suspicion of danger.

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 “Here is the General’s letter,” he said, handing it to me. “I
am afraid he is in great affliction; the letter appears to me to
have been written very nearly in distraction.”
We sat down on a rude bench, under a group of
magnificent lime trees. The sun was setting with all its
melancholy splendor behind the sylvan horizon, and the
stream that flows beside our home, and passes under the
steep old bridge I have mentioned, wound through many a
group of noble trees, almost at our feet, reflecting in its
current the fading crimson of the sky. General Spielsdorf’s
letter was so extraordinary, so vehement, and in some places
so self-contradictory, that I read it twice over—the second
time aloud to my father—and was still unable to account for
it, except by supposing that grief had unsettled his mind.
It said “I have lost my darling daughter, for as such I loved
her. During the last days of dear Bertha’s illness I was not
able to write to you.
Before then I had no idea of her danger. I have lost her, and
now learn all, too late. She died in the peace of innocence,
and in the glorious hope of a blessed futurity. The fiend who
betrayed our infatuated hospitality has done it all. I thought I
was receiving into my house innocence, gaiety, a charming
companion for my lost Bertha. Heavens! what a fool have I
been!
I thank God my child died without a suspicion of the cause
of her sufferings. She is gone without so much as
conjecturing the nature of her illness, and the accursed
passion of the agent of all this misery. I devote my remaining
days to tracking and extinguishing a monster. I am told I may
hope to accomplish my righteous and merciful purpose. At
present there is scarcely a gleam of light to guide me. I curse
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my conceited incredulity, my despicable affectation of
superiority, my blindness, my obstinacy—all—too late. I
cannot write or talk collectedly now. I am distracted. So soon
as I shall have a little recovered, I mean to devote myself for
a time to enquiry, which may possibly lead me as far as
Vienna. Some time in the autumn, two months hence, or
earlier if I live, I will see you—that is, if you permit me; I
will then tell you all that I scarce dare put upon paper now.
Farewell. Pray for me, dear friend.”
In these terms ended this strange letter. Though I had never
seen Bertha Rheinfeldt my eyes filled with tears at the sudden
intelligence; I was startled, as well as profoundly
disappointed.
The sun had now set, and it was twilight by the time I had
returned the General’s letter to my father.
It was a soft clear evening, and we loitered, speculating
upon the possible meanings of the violent and incoherent
sentences which I had just been reading. We had nearly a
mile to walk before reaching the road that passes the schloss
in front, and by that time the moon was shining brilliantly. At
the drawbridge we met Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle
De Lafontaine, who had come out, without their bonnets, to
enjoy the exquisite moonlight.
We heard their voices gabbling in animated dialogue as we
approached. We joined them at the drawbridge, and turned
about to admire with them the beautiful scene.
The glade through which we had just walked lay before us.
At our left the narrow road wound away under clumps of
lordly trees, and was lost to sight amid the thickening forest.
At the right the same road crosses the steep and picturesque

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bridge, near which stands a ruined tower which once guarded
that pass; and beyond the bridge an abrupt eminence rises,
covered with trees, and showing in the shadows some grey
ivy-clustered rocks.
Over the sward and low grounds a thin film of mist was
stealing like smoke, marking the distances with a transparent
veil; and here and there we could see the river faintly flashing
in the moonlight.
No softer, sweeter scene could be imagined. The news I
had just heard made it melancholy; but nothing could disturb
its character of profound serenity, and the enchanted glory
and vagueness of the prospect.
My father, who enjoyed the picturesque, and I, stood
looking in silence over the expanse beneath us. The two good
governesses, standing a little way behind us, discoursed upon
the scene, and were eloquent upon the moon.
Madame Perrodon was fat, middle-aged, and romantic, and
talked and sighed poetically. Mademoiselle De Lafontaine—
in right of her father who was a German, assumed to be
psychological, metaphysical, and something of a mystic—
now declared that when the moon shone with a light so
intense it was well known that it indicated a special spiritual
activity. The effect of the full moon in such a state of
brilliancy was manifold. It acted on dreams, it acted on
lunacy, it acted on nervous people, it had marvelous physical
influences connected with life. Mademoiselle related that her
cousin, who was mate of a merchant ship, having taken a nap
on deck on such a night, lying on his back, with his face full
in the light on the moon, had wakened, after a dream of an
old woman clawing him by the cheek, with his features

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horribly drawn to one side; and his countenance had never
quite recovered its equilibrium.
“The moon, this night,” she said, “is full of idyllic and
magnetic influence—and see, when you look behind you at
the front of the schloss how all its windows flash and twinkle
with that silvery splendor, as if unseen hands had lighted up
the rooms to receive fairy guests.”
There are indolent styles of the spirits in which, indisposed
to talk ourselves, the talk of others is pleasant to our listless
ears; and I gazed on, pleased with the tinkle of the ladies’
conversation.
“I have got into one of my moping moods tonight,” said
my father, after a silence, and quoting Shakespeare, whom,
by way of keeping up our English, he used to read aloud, he
said:
“‘In truth I know not why I am so sad.
It wearies me: you say it wearies you;
But how I got it—came by it.’

“I forget the rest. But I feel as if some great misfortune

were hanging over us. I suppose the poor General’s afflicted
letter has had something to do with it.”
At this moment the unwonted sound of carriage wheels and
many hoofs upon the road, arrested our attention.
They seemed to be approaching from the high ground
overlooking the bridge, and very soon the equipage emerged
from that point. Two horsemen first crossed the bridge, then
came a carriage drawn by four horses, and two men rode
behind.

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 It seemed to be the traveling carriage of a person of rank;
and we were all immediately absorbed in watching that very
unusual spectacle. It became, in a few moments, greatly more
interesting, for just as the carriage had passed the summit of
the steep bridge, one of the leaders, taking fright,
communicated his panic to the rest, and after a plunge or two,
the whole team broke into a wild gallop together, and dashing
between the horsemen who rode in front, came thundering
along the road towards us with the speed of a hurricane.
The excitement of the scene was made more painful by the
clear, long-drawn screams of a female voice from the
carriage window.
We all advanced in curiosity and horror; me rather in
silence, the rest with various ejaculations of terror.
Our suspense did not last long. Just before you reach the
castle drawbridge, on the route they were coming, there
stands by the roadside a magnificent lime tree, on the other
stands an ancient stone cross, at sight of which the horses,
now going at a pace that was perfectly frightful, swerved so
as to bring the wheel over the projecting roots of the tree.
I knew what was coming. I covered my eyes, unable to see
it out, and turned my head away; at the same moment I heard
a cry from my lady friends, who had gone on a little.
Curiosity opened my eyes, and I saw a scene of utter
confusion. Two of the horses were on the ground, the
carriage lay upon its side with two wheels in the air; the men
were busy removing the traces, and a lady with a
commanding air and figure had got out, and stood with
clasped hands, raising the handkerchief that was in them
every now and then to her eyes.

14
 Through the carriage door was now lifted a young lady,
who appeared to be lifeless. My dear old father was already
beside the elder lady, with his hat in his hand, evidently
tendering his aid and the resources of his schloss. The lady
did not appear to hear him, or to have eyes for anything but
the slender girl who was being placed against the slope of the
bank.
I approached; the young lady was apparently stunned, but
she was certainly not dead. My father, who piqued himself on
being something of a physician, had just had his fingers on
her wrist and assured the lady, who declared herself her
mother, that her pulse, though faint and irregular, was
undoubtedly still distinguishable. The lady clasped her hands
and looked upward, as if in a momentary transport of
gratitude; but immediately she broke out again in that
theatrical way which is, I believe, natural to some people.
She was what is called a fine looking woman for her time
of life, and must have been handsome; she was tall, but not
thin, and dressed in black velvet, and looked rather pale, but
with a proud and commanding countenance, though now
agitated strangely.
“Who was ever being so born to calamity?” I heard her say,
with clasped hands, as I came up. “Here am I, on a journey of
life and death, in prosecuting which to lose an hour is
possibly to lose all. My child will not have recovered
sufficiently to resume her route for who can say how long. I
must leave her: I cannot, dare not, delay. How far on, sir, can
you tell, is the nearest village? I must leave her there; and
shall not see my darling, or even hear of her till my return,
three months hence.”

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 I plucked my father by the coat, and whispered earnestly in
his ear: “Oh! papa, pray ask her to let her stay with us—it
would be so delightful. Do, pray.”
“If Madame will entrust her child to the care of my
daughter, and of her good gouvernante, Madame Perrodon,
and permit her to remain as our guest, under my charge, until
her return, it will confer a distinction and an obligation upon
us, and we shall treat her with all the care and devotion which
so sacred a trust deserves.”
“I cannot do that, sir, it would be to task your kindness and
chivalry too cruelly,” said the lady, distractedly.
“It would, on the contrary, be to confer on us a very great
kindness at the moment when we most need it. My daughter
has just been disappointed by a cruel misfortune, in a visit
from which she had long anticipated a great deal of
happiness. If you confide this young lady to our care it will
be her best consolation. The nearest village on your route is
distant, and affords no such inn as you could think of placing
your daughter at; you cannot allow her to continue her
journey for any considerable distance without danger. If, as
you say, you cannot suspend your journey, you must part
with her tonight, and nowhere could you do so with more
honest assurances of care and tenderness than here.”
There was something in this lady’s air and appearance so
distinguished and even imposing, and in her manner so
engaging, as to impress one, quite apart from the dignity of
her equipage, with a conviction that she was a person of
consequence.
By this time the carriage was replaced in its upright
position, and the horses, quite tractable, in the traces again.

16
 The lady threw on her daughter a glance which I fancied
was not quite so affectionate as one might have anticipated
from the beginning of the scene; then she beckoned slightly
to my father, and withdrew two or three steps with him out of
hearing; and talked to him with a fixed and stern
countenance, not at all like that with which she had hitherto
spoken.
I was filled with wonder that my father did not seem to
perceive the change, and also unspeakably curious to learn
what it could be that she was speaking, almost in his ear, with
so much earnestness and rapidity.
Two or three minutes at most I think she remained thus
employed, then she turned, and a few steps brought her to
where her daughter lay, supported by Madame Perrodon. She
kneeled beside her for a moment and whispered, as Madame
supposed, a little benediction in her ear; then hastily kissing
her she stepped into her carriage, the door was closed, the
footmen in stately liveries jumped up behind, the outriders
spurred on, the postilions cracked their whips, the horses
plunged and broke suddenly into a furious canter that
threatened soon again to become a gallop, and the carriage
whirled away, followed at the same rapid pace by the two
horsemen in the rear.
III.
We Compare Notes
We followed the cortege with our eyes until it was swiftly
lost to sight in the misty wood; and the very sound of the
hoofs and the wheels died away in the silent night air.

17
 Nothing remained to assure us that the adventure had not
been an illusion of a moment but the young lady, who just at
that moment opened her eyes. I could not see, for her face
was turned from me, but she raised her head, evidently
looking about her, and I heard a very sweet voice ask
complainingly, “Where is mamma?”
Our good Madame Perrodon answered tenderly, and added
some comfortable assurances.
I then heard her ask:
“Where am I? What is this place?” and after that she said,
“I don’t see the carriage; and Matska, where is she?”
Madame answered all her questions in so far as she
understood them; and gradually the young lady remembered
how the misadventure came about, and was glad to hear that
no one in, or in attendance on, the carriage was hurt; and on
learning that her mamma had left her here, till her return in
about three months, she wept.
I was going to add my consolations to those of Madame
Perrodon when Mademoiselle De Lafontaine placed her hand
upon my arm, saying:
“Don’t approach, one at a time is as much as she can at
present converse with; a very little excitement would possibly
overpower her now.”
As soon as she is comfortably in bed, I thought, I will run
up to her room and see her.
My father in the meantime had sent a servant on horseback
for the physician, who lived about two leagues away; and a
bedroom was being prepared for the young lady’s reception.
The stranger now rose, and leaning on Madame’s arm,
walked slowly over the drawbridge and into the castle gate.
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 In the hall, servants waited to receive her, and she was
conducted forthwith to her room. The room we usually sat in
as our drawing room is long, having four windows, that
looked over the moat and drawbridge, upon the forest scene I
have just described.
It is furnished in old carved oak, with large carved
cabinets, and the chairs are cushioned with crimson Utrecht
velvet. The walls are covered with tapestry, and surrounded
with great gold frames, the figures being as large as life, in
ancient and very curious costume, and the subjects
represented are hunting, hawking, and generally festive. It is
not too stately to be extremely comfortable; and here we had
our tea, for with his usual patriotic leanings he insisted that
the national beverage should make its appearance regularly
with our coffee and chocolate.
We sat here this night, and with candles lighted, were
talking over the adventure of the evening.
Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle De Lafontaine were
both of our party. The young stranger had hardly lain down in
her bed when she sank into a deep sleep; and those ladies had
left her in the care of a servant.
“How do you like our guest?” I asked, as soon as Madame
entered. “Tell me all about her?”
“I like her extremely,” answered Madame, “she is, I almost
think, the prettiest creature I ever saw; about your age, and so
gentle and nice.”
“She is absolutely beautiful,” threw in Mademoiselle, who
had peeped for a moment into the stranger’s room.
“And such a sweet voice!” added Madame Perrodon.

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 “Did you remark a woman in the carriage, after it was set
up again, who did not get out,” inquired Mademoiselle, “but
only looked from the window?”
“No, we had not seen her.”
Then she described a hideous black woman, with a sort of
colored turban on her head, and who was gazing all the time
from the carriage window, nodding and grinning derisively
towards the ladies, with gleaming eyes and large white
eyeballs, and her teeth set as if in fury.
“Did you remark what an ill-looking pack of men the
servants were?” asked Madame.
“Yes,” said my father, who had just come in, “ugly, hang-
dog looking fellows as ever I beheld in my life. I hope they
mayn’t rob the poor lady in the forest. They are clever
rogues, however; they got everything to rights in a minute.”
“I dare say they are worn out with too long traveling,” said
Madame.
“Besides looking wicked, their faces were so strangely
lean, and dark, and sullen. I am very curious, I own; but I
dare say the young lady will tell you all about it tomorrow, if
she is sufficiently recovered.”
“I don’t think she will,” said my father, with a mysterious
smile, and a little nod of his head, as if he knew more about it
than he cared to tell us.
This made us all the more inquisitive as to what had passed
between him and the lady in the black velvet, in the brief but
earnest interview that had immediately preceded her
departure.
We were scarcely alone, when I entreated him to tell me.
He did not need much pressing.
20
 “There is no particular reason why I should not tell you.
She expressed a reluctance to trouble us with the care of her
daughter, saying she was in delicate health, and nervous, but
not subject to any kind of seizure—she volunteered that—nor
to any illusion; being, in fact, perfectly sane.”
“How very odd to say all that!” I interpolated. “It was so
unnecessary.”
“At all events it was said,” he laughed, “and as you wish to
know all that passed, which was indeed very little, I tell you.
She then said, ‘I am making a long journey
of vital importance—she emphasized the word—rapid and
secret; I shall return for my child in three months; in the
meantime, she will be silent as to who we are, whence we
come, and whither we are traveling.’ That is all she said. She
spoke very pure French. When she said the word ‘secret,’ she
paused for a few seconds, looking sternly, her eyes fixed on
mine. I fancy she makes a great point of that. You saw how
quickly she was gone. I hope I have not done a very foolish
thing, in taking charge of the young lady.”
For my part, I was delighted. I was longing to see and talk
to her; and only waiting till the doctor should give me leave.
You, who live in towns, can have no idea how great an event
the introduction of a new friend is, in such a solitude as
surrounded us.
The doctor did not arrive till nearly one o’clock; but I
could no more have gone to my bed and slept, than I could
have overtaken, on foot, the carriage in which the princess in
black velvet had driven away.
When the physician came down to the drawing room, it
was to report very favorably upon his patient. She was now

21
sitting up, her pulse quite regular, apparently perfectly well.
She had sustained no injury, and the little shock to her nerves
had passed away quite harmlessly. There could be no harm
certainly in my seeing her, if we both wished it; and, with this
permission I sent, forthwith, to know whether she would
allow me to visit her for a few minutes in her room.
The servant returned immediately to say that she desired
nothing more.
You may be sure I was not long in availing myself of this
permission.
Our visitor lay in one of the handsomest rooms in the
schloss. It was, perhaps, a little stately. There was a somber
piece of tapestry opposite the foot of the bed, representing
Cleopatra with the asps to her bosom; and other solemn
classic scenes were displayed, a little faded, upon the other
walls. But there was gold carving, and rich and varied color
enough in the other decorations of the room, to more than
redeem the gloom of the old tapestry.
There were candles at the bedside. She was sitting up; her
slender pretty figure enveloped in the soft silk dressing gown,
embroidered with flowers, and lined with thick quilted silk,
which her mother had thrown over her feet as she lay upon
the ground.
What was it that, as I reached the bedside and had just
begun my little greeting, struck me dumb in a moment, and
made me recoil a step or two from before her? I will tell you.
I saw the very face which had visited me in my childhood
at night, which remained so fixed in my memory, and on
which I had for so many years so often ruminated with
horror, when no one suspected of what I was thinking.
22
 It was pretty, even beautiful; and when I first beheld it,
wore the same melancholy expression.
But this almost instantly lighted into a strange fixed smile
of recognition.
There was a silence of fully a minute, and then at length
she spoke; I could not.
“How wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Twelve years ago, I
saw your face in a dream, and it has haunted me ever since.”
“Wonderful indeed!” I repeated, overcoming with an effort
the horror that had for a time suspended my utterances.
“Twelve years ago, in vision or reality, I certainly saw you. I
could not forget your face. It has remained before my eyes
ever since.”
Her smile had softened. Whatever I had fancied strange in
it, was gone, and it and her dimpling cheeks were now
delightfully pretty and intelligent.
I felt reassured, and continued more in the vein which
hospitality indicated, to bid her welcome, and to tell her how
much pleasure her accidental arrival had given us all, and
especially what a happiness it was to me.
I took her hand as I spoke. I was a little shy, as lonely
people are, but the situation made me eloquent, and even
bold. She pressed my hand, she laid hers upon it, and her
eyes glowed, as, looking hastily into mine, she smiled again,
and blushed.
She answered my welcome very prettily. I sat down beside
her, still wondering; and she said:
“I must tell you my vision about you; it is so very strange
that you and I should have had, each of the other so vivid a
dream, that each should have seen, I you and you me, looking
23
as we do now, when of course we both were mere children. I
was a child, about six years old, and I awoke from a confused
and troubled dream, and found myself in a room, unlike my
nursery, wainscoted clumsily in some dark wood, and with
cupboards and bedsteads, and chairs, and benches placed
about it. The beds were, I thought, all empty, and the room
itself without anyone but myself in it; and I, after looking
about me for some time, and admiring especially an iron
candlestick with two branches, which I should certainly know
again, crept under one of the beds to reach the window; but
as I got from under the bed, I heard someone crying; and
looking up, while I was still upon my knees, I saw you—
most assuredly you—as I see you now; a beautiful young
lady, with golden hair and large blue eyes, and lips—your
lips—you as you are here.
“Your looks won me; I climbed on the bed and put my
arms about you, and I think we both fell asleep. I was aroused
by a scream; you were sitting up screaming. I was frightened,
and slipped down upon the ground, and, it seemed to me, lost
consciousness for a moment; and when I came to myself, I
was again in my nursery at home. Your face I have never
forgotten since. I could not be misled by mere
resemblance. You are the lady whom I saw then.”
It was now my turn to relate my corresponding vision,
which I did, to the undisguised wonder of my new
acquaintance.
“I don’t know which should be most afraid of the other,”
she said, again smiling—“If you were less pretty I think I
should be very much afraid of you, but being as you are, and
you and I both so young, I feel only that I have made your
acquaintance twelve years ago, and have already a right to
24
your intimacy; at all events it does seem as if we were
destined, from our earliest childhood, to be friends. I wonder
whether you feel as strangely drawn towards me as I do to
you; I have never had a friend—shall I find one now?” She
sighed, and her fine dark eyes gazed passionately on me.
Now the truth is, I felt rather unaccountably towards the
beautiful stranger. I did feel, as she said, “drawn towards
her,” but there was also something of repulsion. In this
ambiguous feeling, however, the sense of attraction
immensely prevailed. She interested and won me; she was so
beautiful and so indescribably engaging.
I perceived now something of languor and exhaustion
stealing over her, and hastened to bid her good night.
“The doctor thinks,” I added, “that you ought to have a
maid to sit up with you tonight; one of ours is waiting, and
you will find her a very useful and quiet creature.”
“How kind of you, but I could not sleep, I never could with
an attendant in the room. I shan’t require any assistance—
and, shall I confess my weakness, I am haunted with a terror
of robbers. Our house was robbed once, and two servants
murdered, so I always lock my door. It has become a habit—
and you look so kind I know you will forgive me. I see there
is a key in the lock.”
She held me close in her pretty arms for a moment and
whispered in my ear, “Good night, darling, it is very hard to
part with you, but good night; tomorrow, but not early, I shall
see you again.”
She sank back on the pillow with a sigh, and her fine eyes
followed me with a fond and melancholy gaze, and she
murmured again “Good night, dear friend.”
25
 Young people like, and even love, on impulse. I was
flattered by the evident, though as yet undeserved, fondness
she showed me. I liked the confidence with which she at once
received me. She was determined that we should be very near
friends.
Next day came and we met again. I was delighted with my
companion; that is to say, in many respects.
Her looks lost nothing in daylight—she was certainly the
most beautiful creature I had ever seen, and the unpleasant
remembrance of the face presented in my early dream, had
lost the effect of the first unexpected recognition.
She confessed that she had experienced a similar shock on
seeing me, and precisely the same faint antipathy that had
mingled with my admiration of her. We now laughed
together over our momentary horrors.
IV.
Her Habits—A Saunter
I told you that I was charmed with her in most particulars.
There were some that did not please me so well.
She was above the middle height of women. I shall begin
by describing her.
She was slender, and wonderfully graceful. Except that her
movements were languid—very languid—indeed, there was
nothing in her appearance to indicate an invalid. Her
complexion was rich and brilliant; her features were small
and beautifully formed; her eyes large, dark, and lustrous; her
hair was quite wonderful, I never saw hair so magnificently
thick and long when it was down about her shoulders; I have
often placed my hands under it, and laughed with wonder at
26
its weight. It was exquisitely fine and soft, and in color a rich
very dark brown, with something of gold. I loved to let it
down, tumbling with its own weight, as, in her room, she lay
back in her chair talking in her sweet low voice, I used to fold
and braid it, and spread it out and play with it. Heavens! If I
had but known all!
I said there were particulars which did not please me. I
have told you that her confidence won me the first night I
saw her; but I found that she exercised with respect to herself,
her mother, her history, everything in fact connected with her
life, plans, and people, an ever wakeful reserve. I dare say I
was unreasonable, perhaps I was wrong; I dare say I ought to
have respected the solemn injunction laid upon my father by
the stately lady in black velvet. But curiosity is a restless and
unscrupulous passion, and no one girl can endure, with
patience, that hers should be baffled by another. What harm
could it do anyone to tell me what I so ardently desired to
know? Had she no trust in my good sense or honor? Why
would she not believe me when I assured her, so solemnly,
that I would not divulge one syllable of what she told me to
any mortal breathing.
There was a coldness, it seemed to me, beyond her years,
in her smiling melancholy persistent refusal to afford me the
least ray of light.
I cannot say we quarreled upon this point, for she would
not quarrel upon any. It was, of course, very unfair of me to
press her, very ill-bred, but I really could not help it; and I
might just as well have let it alone.
What she did tell me amounted, in my unconscionable
estimation—to nothing.

27
 It was all summed up in three very vague disclosures:
First—Her name was Carmilla.
Second—Her family was very ancient and noble.
Third—Her home lay in the direction of the west.
She would not tell me the name of her family, nor their
armorial bearings, nor the name of their estate, nor even that
of the country they lived in.
You are not to suppose that I worried her incessantly on
these subjects. I watched opportunity, and rather insinuated
than urged my inquiries. Once or twice, indeed, I did attack
her more directly. But no matter what my tactics, utter failure
was invariably the result. Reproaches and caresses were all
lost upon her. But I must add this, that her evasion was
conducted with so pretty a melancholy and deprecation, with
so many, and even passionate declarations of her liking for
me, and trust in my honor, and with so many promises that I
should at last know all, that I could not find it in my heart
long to be offended with her.
She used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me
to her, and laying her cheek to mine, murmur with her lips
near my ear, “Dearest, your little heart is wounded; think me
not cruel because I obey the irresistible law of my strength
and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart
bleeds with yours. In the rapture of my enormous humiliation
I live in your warm life, and you shall die—die, sweetly die
—into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in
your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of
that cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know
no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving
spirit.”
28
 And when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would
press me more closely in her trembling embrace, and her lips
in soft kisses gently glow upon my cheek.
Her agitations and her language were unintelligible to me.
From these foolish embraces, which were not of very
frequent occurrence, I must allow, I used to wish to extricate
myself; but my energies seemed to fail me. Her murmured
words sounded like a lullaby in my ear, and soothed my
resistance into a trance, from which I only seemed to recover
myself when she withdrew her arms.
In these mysterious moods I did not like her. I experienced
a strange tumultuous excitement that was pleasurable, ever
and anon, mingled with a vague sense of fear and disgust. I
had no distinct thoughts about her while such scenes lasted,
but I was conscious of a love growing into adoration, and
also of abhorrence. This I know is paradox, but I can make no
other attempt to explain the feeling.
I now write, after an interval of more than ten years, with a
trembling hand, with a confused and horrible recollection of
certain occurrences and situations, in the ordeal through
which I was unconsciously passing; though with a vivid and
very sharp remembrance of the main current of my story.
But, I suspect, in all lives there are certain emotional
scenes, those in which our passions have been most wildly
and terribly roused, that are of all others the most vaguely
and dimly remembered.
Sometimes after an hour of apathy, my strange and
beautiful companion would take my hand and hold it with a
fond pressure, renewed again and again; blushing softly,
gazing in my face with languid and burning eyes, and
29
breathing so fast that her dress rose and fell with the
tumultuous respiration. It was like the ardor of a lover; it
embarrassed me; it was hateful and yet over-powering; and
with gloating eyes she drew me to her, and her hot lips
traveled along my cheek in kisses; and she would whisper,
almost in sobs, “You are mine, you shall be mine, you and I
are one for ever.” Then she had thrown herself back in her
chair, with her small hands over her eyes, leaving me
trembling.
“Are we related,” I used to ask; “what can you mean by all
this? I remind you perhaps of someone whom you love; but
you must not, I hate it; I don’t know you—I don’t know
myself when you look so and talk so.”
She used to sigh at my vehemence, then turn away and
drop my hand.
Respecting these very extraordinary manifestations I strove
in vain to form any satisfactory theory—I could not refer
them to affectation or trick. It was unmistakably the
momentary breaking out of suppressed instinct and emotion.
Was she, notwithstanding her mother’s volunteered denial,
subject to brief visitations of insanity; or was there here a
disguise and a romance? I had read in old storybooks of such
things. What if a boyish lover had found his way into the
house, and sought to prosecute his suit in masquerade, with
the assistance of a clever old adventuress. But there were
many things against this hypothesis, highly interesting as it
was to my vanity.
I could boast of no little attentions such as masculine
gallantry delights to offer. Between these passionate
moments there were long intervals of commonplace, of
gaiety, of brooding melancholy, during which, except that I
30
detected her eyes so full of melancholy fire, following me, at
times I might have been as nothing to her. Except in these
brief periods of mysterious excitement her ways were girlish;
and there was always a languor about her, quite incompatible
with a masculine system in a state of health.
In some respects her habits were odd. Perhaps not so
singular in the opinion of a town lady like you, as they
appeared to us rustic people. She used to come down very
late, generally not till one o’clock, she would then take a cup
of chocolate, but eat nothing; we then went out for a walk,
which was a mere saunter, and she seemed, almost
immediately, exhausted, and either returned to the schloss or
sat on one of the benches that were placed, here and there,
among the trees. This was a bodily languor in which her mind
did not sympathize. She was always an animated talker, and
very intelligent.
She sometimes alluded for a moment to her own home, or
mentioned an adventure or situation, or an early recollection,
which indicated a people of strange manners, and described
customs of which we knew nothing. I gathered from these
chance hints that her native country was much more remote
than I had at first fancied.
As we sat thus one afternoon under the trees a funeral
passed us by. It was that of a pretty young girl, whom I had
often seen, the daughter of one of the rangers of the forest.
The poor man was walking behind the coffin of his darling;
she was his only child, and he looked quite heartbroken.
Peasants walking two-and-two came behind, they were
singing a funeral hymn.

31
 I rose to mark my respect as they passed, and joined in the
hymn they were very sweetly singing.
My companion shook me a little roughly, and I turned
surprised.
She said brusquely, “Don’t you perceive how discordant
that is?”
“I think it very sweet, on the contrary,” I answered, vexed
at the interruption, and very uncomfortable, lest the people
who composed the little procession should observe and resent
what was passing.
I resumed, therefore, instantly, and was again interrupted.
“You pierce my ears,” said Carmilla, almost angrily, and
stopping her ears with her tiny fingers. “Besides, how can
you tell that your religion and mine are the same; your forms
wound me, and I hate funerals. What a fuss! Why you must
die—everyone must die; and all are happier when they do.
Come home.”
“My father has gone on with the clergyman to the
churchyard. I thought you knew she was to be buried today.”
“She? I don’t trouble my head about peasants. I don’t know
who she is,” answered Carmilla, with a flash from her fine
eyes.
“She is the poor girl who fancied she saw a ghost a
fortnight ago, and has been dying ever since, till yesterday,
when she expired.”
“Tell me nothing about ghosts. I shan’t sleep tonight if you
do.”
“I hope there is no plague or fever coming; all this looks
very like it,” I continued. “The swineherd’s young wife died
only a week ago, and she thought something seized her by the
32
throat as she lay in her bed, and nearly strangled her. Papa
says such horrible fancies do accompany some forms of
fever. She was quite well the day before. She sank
afterwards, and died before a week.”
“Well, her funeral is over, I hope, and her hymn sung; and
our ears shan’t be tortured with that discord and jargon. It has
made me nervous. Sit down here, beside me; sit close; hold
my hand; press it hard-hard-harder.”
We had moved a little back, and had come to another seat.
She sat down. Her face underwent a change that alarmed
and even terrified me for a moment. It darkened, and became
horribly livid; her teeth and hands were clenched, and she
frowned and compressed her lips, while she stared down
upon the ground at her feet, and trembled all over with a
continued shudder as irrepressible as ague. All her energies
seemed strained to suppress a fit, with which she was then
breathlessly tugging; and at length a low convulsive cry of
suffering broke from her, and gradually the hysteria subsided.
“There! That comes of strangling people with hymns!” she
said at last. “Hold me, hold me still. It is passing away.”
And so gradually it did; and perhaps to dissipate the
somber impression which the spectacle had left upon me, she
became unusually animated and chatty; and so we got home.
This was the first time I had seen her exhibit any definable
symptoms of that delicacy of health which her mother had
spoken of. It was the first time, also, I had seen her exhibit
anything like temper.
Both passed away like a summer cloud; and never but once
afterwards did I witness on her part a momentary sign of
anger. I will tell you how it happened.
33
 She and I were looking out of one of the long drawing
room windows, when there entered the courtyard, over the
drawbridge, a figure of a wanderer whom I knew very well.
He used to visit the schloss generally twice a year.
It was the figure of a hunchback, with the sharp lean
features that generally accompany deformity. He wore a
pointed black beard, and he was smiling from ear to ear,
showing his white fangs. He was dressed in buff, black, and
scarlet, and crossed with more straps and belts than I could
count, from which hung all manner of things. Behind, he
carried a magic lantern, and two boxes, which I well knew, in
one of which was a salamander, and in the other a mandrake.
These monsters used to make my father laugh. They were
compounded of parts of monkeys, parrots, squirrels, fish, and
hedgehogs, dried and stitched together with great neatness
and startling effect. He had a fiddle, a box of conjuring
apparatus, a pair of foils and masks attached to his belt,
several other mysterious cases dangling about him, and a
black staff with copper ferrules in his hand. His companion
was a rough spare dog, that followed at his heels, but stopped
short, suspiciously at the drawbridge, and in a little while
began to howl dismally.
In the meantime, the mountebank, standing in the midst of
the courtyard, raised his grotesque hat, and made us a very
ceremonious bow, paying his compliments very volubly in
execrable French, and German not much better.
Then, disengaging his fiddle, he began to scrape a lively air
to which he sang with a merry discord, dancing with
ludicrous airs and activity, that made me laugh, in spite of the
dog’s howling.

34
 Then he advanced to the window with many smiles and
salutations, and his hat in his left hand, his fiddle under his
arm, and with a fluency that never took breath, he gabbled a
long advertisement of all his accomplishments, and the
resources of the various arts which he placed at our service,
and the curiosities and entertainments which it was in his
power, at our bidding, to display.
“Will your ladyships be pleased to buy an amulet against
the oupire, which is going like the wolf, I hear, through these
woods,” he said dropping his hat on the pavement. “They are
dying of it right and left and here is a charm that never fails;
only pinned to the pillow, and you may laugh in his face.”
These charms consisted of oblong slips of vellum, with
cabalistic ciphers and diagrams upon them.
Carmilla instantly purchased one, and so did I.
He was looking up, and we were smiling down upon him,
amused; at least, I can answer for myself. His piercing black
eye, as he looked up in our faces, seemed to detect something
that fixed for a moment his curiosity,
In an instant he unrolled a leather case, full of all manner
of odd little steel instruments.
“See here, my lady,” he said, displaying it, and addressing
me, “I profess, among other things less useful, the art of
dentistry. Plague take the dog!” he interpolated. “Silence,
beast! He howls so that your ladyships can scarcely hear a
word. Your noble friend, the young lady at your right, has the
sharpest tooth,—long, thin, pointed, like an awl, like a
needle; ha, ha! With my sharp and long sight, as I look up, I
have seen it distinctly; now if it happens to hurt the young
lady, and I think it must, here am I, here are my file, my
35
punch, my nippers; I will make it round and blunt, if her
ladyship pleases; no longer the tooth of a fish, but of a
beautiful young lady as she is. Hey? Is the young lady
displeased? Have I been too bold? Have I offended her?”
The young lady, indeed, looked very angry as she drew
back from the window.
“How dares that mountebank insult us so? Where is your
father? I shall demand redress from him. My father would
have had the wretch tied up to the pump, and flogged with a
cart whip, and burnt to the bones with the cattle brand!”
She retired from the window a step or two, and sat down,
and had hardly lost sight of the offender, when her wrath
subsided as suddenly as it had risen, and she gradually
recovered her usual tone, and seemed to forget the little
hunchback and his follies.
My father was out of spirits that evening. On coming in he
told us that there had been another case very similar to the
two fatal ones which had lately occurred. The sister of a
young peasant on his estate, only a mile away, was very ill,
had been, as she described it, attacked very nearly in the
same way, and was now slowly but steadily sinking.
“All this,” said my father, “is strictly referable to natural
causes. These poor people infect one another with their
superstitions, and so repeat in imagination the images of
terror that have infested their neighbors.”
“But that very circumstance frightens one horribly,” said
Carmilla.
“How so?” inquired my father.
“I am so afraid of fancying I see such things; I think it
would be as bad as reality.”
36
 “We are in God’s hands: nothing can happen without his
permission, and all will end well for those who love him. He
is our faithful creator; He has made us all, and will take care
of us.”
“Creator! Nature!” said the young lady in answer to my
gentle father. “And this disease that invades the country is
natural. Nature. All things proceed from Nature—don’t they?
All things in the heaven, in the earth, and under the earth, act
and live as Nature ordains? I think so.”
“The doctor said he would come here today,” said my
father, after a silence. “I want to know what he thinks about
it, and what he thinks we had better do.”
“Doctors never did me any good,” said Carmilla.
“Then you have been ill?” I asked.
“More ill than ever you were,” she answered.
“Long ago?”
“Yes, a long time. I suffered from this very illness; but I
forget all but my pain and weakness, and they were not so
bad as are suffered in other diseases.”
“You were very young then?”
“I dare say, let us talk no more of it. You would not wound
a friend?”
She looked languidly in my eyes, and passed her arm round
my waist lovingly, and led me out of the room. My father
was busy over some papers near the window.
“Why does your papa like to frighten us?” said the pretty
girl with a sigh and a little shudder.
“He doesn’t, dear Carmilla, it is the very furthest thing
from his mind.”
37
 “Are you afraid, dearest?”
“I should be very much if I fancied there was any real
danger of my being attacked as those poor people were.”
“You are afraid to die?”
“Yes, every one is.”
“But to die as lovers may—to die together, so that they
may live together.
Girls are caterpillars while they live in the world, to be
finally butterflies when the summer comes; but in the
meantime there are grubs and larvae, don’t you see—each
with their peculiar propensities, necessities and structure. So
says Monsieur Buffon, in his big book, in the next room.”
Later in the day the doctor came, and was closeted with
papa for some time.
He was a skilful man, of sixty and upwards, he wore
powder, and shaved his pale face as smooth as a pumpkin. He
and papa emerged from the room together, and I heard papa
laugh, and say as they came out:
“Well, I do wonder at a wise man like you. What do you
say to hippogriffs and dragons?”
The doctor was smiling, and made answer, shaking his
head—
“Nevertheless life and death are mysterious states, and we
know little of the resources of either.”
And so they walked on, and I heard no more. I did not then
know what the doctor had been broaching, but I think I guess
it now.

38
 V.
A Wonderful Likeness
This evening there arrived from Gratz the grave, dark-
faced son of the picture cleaner, with a horse and cart laden
with two large packing cases, having many pictures in each.
It was a journey of ten leagues, and whenever a messenger
arrived at the schloss from our little capital of Gratz, we used
to crowd about him in the hall, to hear the news.
This arrival created in our secluded quarters quite a
sensation. The cases remained in the hall, and the messenger
was taken charge of by the servants till he had eaten his
supper. Then with assistants, and armed with hammer,
ripping chisel, and turnscrew, he met us in the hall, where we
had assembled to witness the unpacking of the cases.
Carmilla sat looking listlessly on, while one after the other
the old pictures, nearly all portraits, which had undergone the
process of renovation, were brought to light. My mother was
of an old Hungarian family, and most of these pictures, which
were about to be restored to their places, had come to us
through her.
My father had a list in his hand, from which he read, as the
artist rummaged out the corresponding numbers. I don’t
know that the pictures were very good, but they were,
undoubtedly, very old, and some of them very curious also.
They had, for the most part, the merit of being now seen by
me, I may say, for the first time; for the smoke and dust of
time had all but obliterated them.
“There is a picture that I have not seen yet,” said my father.
“In one corner, at the top of it, is the name, as well as I could
39
read, ‘Marcia Karnstein,’ and the date ‘1698’; and I am
curious to see how it has turned out.”
I remembered it; it was a small picture, about a foot and a
half high, and nearly square, without a frame; but it was so
blackened by age that I could not make it out.
The artist now produced it, with evident pride. It was quite
beautiful; it was startling; it seemed to live. It was the effigy
of Carmilla!
“Carmilla, dear, here is an absolute miracle. Here you are,
living, smiling, ready to speak, in this picture. Isn’t it
beautiful, Papa? And see, even the little mole on her throat.”
My father laughed, and said “Certainly it is a wonderful
likeness,” but he looked away, and to my surprise seemed but
little struck by it, and went on talking to the picture cleaner,
who was also something of an artist, and discoursed with
intelligence about the portraits or other works, which his art
had just brought into light and color, while I was more and
more lost in wonder the more I looked at the picture.
“Will you let me hang this picture in my room, papa?” I
asked.
“Certainly, dear,” said he, smiling, “I’m very glad you
think it so like.
It must be prettier even than I thought it, if it is.”
The young lady did not acknowledge this pretty speech, did
not seem to hear it. She was leaning back in her seat, her fine
eyes under their long lashes gazing on me in contemplation,
and she smiled in a kind of rapture.
“And now you can read quite plainly the name that is
written in the corner.

40
 It is not Marcia; it looks as if it was done in gold. The
name is Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, and this is a little
coronet over and underneath A.D.
1698. I am descended from the Karnsteins; that is, mamma
was.”
“Ah!” said the lady, languidly, “so am I, I think, a very
long descent, very ancient. Are there any Karnsteins living
now?”
“None who bear the name, I believe. The family were
ruined, I believe, in some civil wars, long ago, but the ruins
of the castle are only about three miles away.”
“How interesting!” she said, languidly. “But see what
beautiful moonlight!” She glanced through the hall door,
which stood a little open. “Suppose you take a little ramble
round the court, and look down at the road and river.”
“It is so like the night you came to us,” I said.
She sighed; smiling.
She rose, and each with her arm about the other’s waist, we
walked out upon the pavement.
In silence, slowly we walked down to the drawbridge,
where the beautiful landscape opened before us.
“And so you were thinking of the night I came here?” she
almost whispered.
“Are you glad I came?”
“Delighted, dear Carmilla,” I answered.
“And you asked for the picture you think like me, to hang
in your room,” she murmured with a sigh, as she drew her
arm closer about my waist, and let her pretty head sink upon
my shoulder. “How romantic you are, Carmilla,” I said.
41
“Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up chiefly
of some one great romance.”
She kissed me silently.
“I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at
this moment, an affair of the heart going on.”
“I have been in love with no one, and never shall,” she
whispered, “unless it should be with you.”
How beautiful she looked in the moonlight!
Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid
her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that
seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that
trembled.
Her soft cheek was glowing against mine. “Darling,
darling,” she murmured, “I live in you; and you would die for
me, I love you so.”
I started from her.
She was gazing on me with eyes from which all fire, all
meaning had flown, and a face colorless and apathetic.
“Is there a chill in the air, dear?” she said drowsily. “I
almost shiver; have I been dreaming? Let us come in. Come;
come; come in.”
“You look ill, Carmilla; a little faint. You certainly must
take some wine,” I said.
“Yes. I will. I’m better now. I shall be quite well in a few
minutes. Yes, do give me a little wine,” answered Carmilla,
as we approached the door.
“Let us look again for a moment; it is the last time,
perhaps, I shall see the moonlight with you.”

42
 “How do you feel now, dear Carmilla? Are you really
better?” I asked.
I was beginning to take alarm, lest she should have been
stricken with the strange epidemic that they said had invaded
the country about us.
“Papa would be grieved beyond measure,” I added, “if he
thought you were ever so little ill, without immediately
letting us know. We have a very skilful doctor near us, the
physician who was with papa today.”
“I’m sure he is. I know how kind you all are; but, dear
child, I am quite well again. There is nothing ever wrong
with me, but a little weakness.
People say I am languid; I am incapable of exertion; I can
scarcely walk as far as a child of three years old: and every
now and then the little strength I have falters, and I become
as you have just seen me. But after all I am very easily set up
again; in a moment I am perfectly myself. See how I have
recovered.”
So, indeed, she had; and she and I talked a great deal, and
very animated she was; and the remainder of that evening
passed without any recurrence of what I called her
infatuations. I mean her crazy talk and looks, which
embarrassed, and even frightened me.
But there occurred that night an event which gave my
thoughts quite a new turn, and seemed to startle even
Carmilla’s languid nature into momentary energy.
VI.
A Very Strange Agony

43
 When we got into the drawing room, and had sat down to
our coffee and chocolate, although Carmilla did not take any,
she seemed quite herself again, and Madame, and
Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, joined us, and made a little
card party, in the course of which papa came in for what he
called his “dish of tea.”
When the game was over he sat down beside Carmilla on
the sofa, and asked her, a little anxiously, whether she had
heard from her mother since her arrival.
She answered “No.”
He then asked whether she knew where a letter would
reach her at present.
“I cannot tell,” she answered ambiguously, “but I have
been thinking of leaving you; you have been already too
hospitable and too kind to me. I have given you an infinity of
trouble, and I should wish to take a carriage tomorrow, and
post in pursuit of her; I know where I shall ultimately find
her, although I dare not yet tell you.”
“But you must not dream of any such thing,” exclaimed my
father, to my great relief. “We can’t afford to lose you so, and
I won’t consent to your leaving us, except under the care of
your mother, who was so good as to consent to your
remaining with us till she should herself return. I should be
quite happy if I knew that you heard from her: but this
evening the accounts of the progress of the mysterious
disease that has invaded our neighborhood, grow even more
alarming; and my beautiful guest, I do feel the responsibility,
unaided by advice from your mother, very much. But I shall
do my best; and one thing is certain, that you must not think
of leaving us without her distinct direction to that effect. We

44
should suffer too much in parting from you to consent to it
easily.”
“Thank you, sir, a thousand times for your hospitality,” she
answered, smiling bashfully. “You have all been too kind to
me; I have seldom been so happy in all my life before, as in
your beautiful chateau, under your care, and in the society of
your dear daughter.”
So he gallantly, in his old-fashioned way, kissed her hand,
smiling and pleased at her little speech.
I accompanied Carmilla as usual to her room, and sat and
chatted with her while she was preparing for bed.
“Do you think,” I said at length, “that you will ever confide
fully in me?”
She turned round smiling, but made no answer, only
continued to smile on me.
“You won’t answer that?” I said. “You can’t answer
pleasantly; I ought not to have asked you.”
“You were quite right to ask me that, or anything. You do
not know how dear you are to me, or you could not think any
confidence too great to look for.
But I am under vows, no nun half so awfully, and I dare
not tell my story yet, even to you. The time is very near when
you shall know everything. You will think me cruel, very
selfish, but love is always selfish; the more ardent the more
selfish. How jealous I am you cannot know. You must come
with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me and still come
with me. and hating me through death and after. There is no
such word as indifference in my apathetic nature.”
“Now, Carmilla, you are going to talk your wild nonsense
again,” I said hastily.
45
 “Not I, silly little fool as I am, and full of whims and
fancies; for your sake I’ll talk like a sage. Were you ever at a
ball?”
“No; how you do run on. What is it like? How charming it
must be.”
“I almost forget, it is years ago.”
I laughed.
“You are not so old. Your first ball can hardly be forgotten
yet.”
“I remember everything about it—with an effort. I see it
all, as divers see what is going on above them, through a
medium, dense, rippling, but transparent. There occurred that
night what has confused the picture, and made its colours
faint. I was all but assassinated in my bed, wounded here,”
she touched her breast, “and never was the same since.”
“Were you near dying?”
“Yes, very—a cruel love—strange love, that would have
taken my life. Love will have its sacrifices. No sacrifice
without blood. Let us go to sleep now; I feel so lazy. How
can I get up just now and lock my door?”
She was lying with her tiny hands buried in her rich wavy
hair, under her cheek, her little head upon the pillow, and her
glittering eyes followed me wherever I moved, with a kind of
shy smile that I could not decipher.
I bid her good night, and crept from the room with an
uncomfortable sensation.
I often wondered whether our pretty guest ever said her
prayers. I certainly had never seen her upon her knees. In the
morning she never came down until long after our family

46
prayers were over, and at night she never left the drawing
room to attend our brief evening prayers in the hall.
If it had not been that it had casually come out in one of
our careless talks that she had been baptised, I should have
doubted her being a Christian. Religion was a subject on
which I had never heard her speak a word. If I had known the
world better, this particular neglect or antipathy would not
have so much surprised me.
The precautions of nervous people are infectious, and
persons of a like temperament are pretty sure, after a time, to
imitate them. I had adopted Carmilla’s habit of locking her
bedroom door, having taken into my head all her whimsical
alarms about midnight invaders and prowling assassins. I had
also adopted her precaution of making a brief search through
her room, to satisfy herself that no lurking assassin or robber
was “ensconced.”
These wise measures taken, I got into my bed and fell
asleep. A light was burning in my room. This was an old
habit, of very early date, and which nothing could have
tempted me to dispense with.
Thus fortifed I might take my rest in peace. But dreams
come through stone walls, light up dark rooms, or darken
light ones, and their persons make their exits and their
entrances as they please, and laugh at locksmiths.
I had a dream that night that was the beginning of a very
strange agony.
I cannot call it a nightmare, for I was quite conscious of
being asleep.
But I was equally conscious of being in my room, and
lying in bed, precisely as I actually was. I saw, or fancied I
47
saw, the room and its furniture just as I had seen it last,
except that it was very dark, and I saw something moving
round the foot of the bed, which at first I could not accurately
distinguish. But I soon saw that it was a sooty-black animal
that resembled a monstrous cat. It appeared to me about four
or five feet long for it measured fully the length of the
hearthrug as it passed over it; and it continued to-ing and fro-
ing with the lithe, sinister restlessness of a beast in a cage. I
could not cry out, although as you may suppose, I was
terrified. Its pace was growing faster, and the room rapidly
darker and darker, and at length so dark that I could no longer
see anything of it but its eyes. I felt it spring lightly on the
bed. The two broad eyes approached my face, and suddenly I
felt a stinging pain as if two large needles darted, an inch or
two apart, deep into my breast. I waked with a scream. The
room was lighted by the candle that burnt there all through
the night, and I saw a female figure standing at the foot of the
bed, a little at the right side. It was in a dark loose dress, and
its hair was down and covered its shoulders. A block of stone
could not have been more still. There was not the slightest
stir of respiration. As I stared at it, the figure appeared to
have changed its place, and was now nearer the door; then,
close to it, the door opened, and it passed out.
I was now relieved, and able to breathe and move. My first
thought was that Carmilla had been playing me a trick, and
that I had forgotten to secure my door. I hastened to it, and
found it locked as usual on the inside. I was afraid to open it
—I was horrified. I sprang into my bed and covered my head
up in the bedclothes, and lay there more dead than alive till
morning.

48
 VII.
Descending
It would be vain my attempting to tell you the horror with
which, even now, I recall the occurrence of that night. It was
no such transitory terror as a dream leaves behind it. It
seemed to deepen by time, and communicated itself to the
room and the very furniture that had encompassed the
apparition.
I could not bear next day to be alone for a moment. I
should have told papa, but for two opposite reasons. At one
time I thought he would laugh at my story, and I could not
bear its being treated as a jest; and at another I thought he
might fancy that I had been attacked by the mysterious
complaint which had invaded our neighborhood. I had myself
no misgiving of the kind, and as he had been rather an invalid
for some time, I was afraid of alarming him.
I was comfortable enough with my good-natured
companions, Madame Perrodon, and the vivacious
Mademoiselle Lafontaine. They both perceived that I was out
of spirits and nervous, and at length I told them what lay so
heavy at my heart.
Mademoiselle laughed, but I fancied that Madame
Perrodon looked anxious.
“By-the-by,” said Mademoiselle, laughing, “the long lime
tree walk, behind Carmilla’s bedroom window, is haunted!”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Madame, who probably thought
the theme rather inopportune, “and who tells that story, my
dear?”

49
 “Martin says that he came up twice, when the old yard gate
was being repaired, before sunrise, and twice saw the same
female figure walking down the lime tree avenue.”
“So he well might, as long as there are cows to milk in the
river fields,” said Madame.
“I daresay; but Martin chooses to be frightened, and never
did I see fool more frightened.”
“You must not say a word about it to Carmilla, because she
can see down that walk from her room window,” I
interposed, “and she is, if possible, a greater coward than I.”
Carmilla came down rather later than usual that day.
“I was so frightened last night,” she said, so soon as were
together, “and I am sure I should have seen something
dreadful if it had not been for that charm I bought from the
poor little hunchback whom I called such hard names. I had a
dream of something black coming round my bed, and I
awoke in a perfect horror, and I really thought, for some
seconds, I saw a dark figure near the chimneypiece, but I felt
under my pillow for my charm, and the moment my fingers
touched it, the figure disappeared, and I felt quite certain,
only that I had it by me, that something frightful would have
made its appearance, and, perhaps, throttled me, as it did
those poor people we heard of.
“Well, listen to me,” I began, and recounted my adventure,
at the recital of which she appeared horrified.
“And had you the charm near you?” she asked, earnestly.
“No, I had dropped it into a china vase in the drawing
room, but I shall certainly take it with me tonight, as you
have so much faith in it.”

50
 At this distance of time I cannot tell you, or even
understand, how I overcame my horror so effectually as to lie
alone in my room that night. I remember distinctly that I
pinned the charm to my pillow. I fell asleep almost
immediately, and slept even more soundly than usual all
night.
Next night I passed as well. My sleep was delightfully deep
and dreamless.
But I wakened with a sense of lassitude and melancholy,
which, however, did not exceed a degree that was almost
luxurious.
“Well, I told you so,” said Carmilla, when I described my
quiet sleep, “I had such delightful sleep myself last night; I
pinned the charm to the breast of my nightdress. It was too
far away the night before. I am quite sure it was all fancy,
except the dreams. I used to think that evil spirits made
dreams, but our doctor told me it is no such thing. Only a
fever passing by, or some other malady, as they often do, he
said, knocks at the door, and not being able to get in, passes
on, with that alarm.”
“And what do you think the charm is?” said I.
“It has been fumigated or immersed in some drug, and is an
antidote against the malaria,” she answered.
“Then it acts only on the body?”
“Certainly; you don’t suppose that evil spirits are
frightened by bits of ribbon, or the perfumes of a druggist’s
shop? No, these complaints, wandering in the air, begin by
trying the nerves, and so infect the brain, but before they can
seize upon you, the antidote repels them. That I am sure is

51
what the charm has done for us. It is nothing magical, it is
simply natural.
I should have been happier if I could have quite agreed
with Carmilla, but I did my best, and the impression was a
little losing its force.
For some nights I slept profoundly; but still every morning
I felt the same lassitude, and a languor weighed upon me all
day. I felt myself a changed girl. A strange melancholy was
stealing over me, a melancholy that I would not have
interrupted. Dim thoughts of death began to open, and an idea
that I was slowly sinking took gentle, and, somehow, not
unwelcome, possession of me. If it was sad, the tone of mind
which this induced was also sweet.
Whatever it might be, my soul acquiesced in it.
I would not admit that I was ill, I would not consent to tell
my papa, or to have the doctor sent for.
Carmilla became more devoted to me than ever, and her
strange paroxysms of languid adoration more frequent. She
used to gloat on me with increasing ardor the more my
strength and spirits waned. This always shocked me like a
momentary glare of insanity.
Without knowing it, I was now in a pretty advanced stage
of the strangest illness under which mortal ever suffered.
There was an unaccountable fascination in its earlier
symptoms that more than reconciled me to the incapacitating
effect of that stage of the malady. This fascination increased
for a time, until it reached a certain point, when gradually a
sense of the horrible mingled itself with it, deepening, as you
shall hear, until it discolored and perverted the whole state of
my life.
52
 The first change I experienced was rather agreeable. It was
very near the turning point from which began the descent of
Avernus.
Certain vague and strange sensations visited me in my
sleep. The prevailing one was of that pleasant, peculiar cold
thrill which we feel in bathing, when we move against the
current of a river. This was soon accompanied by dreams that
seemed interminable, and were so vague that I could never
recollect their scenery and persons, or any one connected
portion of their action. But they left an awful impression, and
a sense of exhaustion, as if I had passed through a long
period of great mental exertion and danger.
After all these dreams there remained on waking a
remembrance of having been in a place very nearly dark, and
of having spoken to people whom I could not see; and
especially of one clear voice, of a female’s, very deep, that
spoke as if at a distance, slowly, and producing always the
same sensation of indescribable solemnity and fear.
Sometimes there came a sensation as if a hand was drawn
softly along my cheek and neck. Sometimes it was as if warm
lips kissed me, and longer and longer and more lovingly as
they reached my throat, but there the caress fixed itself. My
heart beat faster, my breathing rose and fell rapidly and full
drawn; a sobbing, that rose into a sense of strangulation,
supervened, and turned into a dreadful convulsion, in which
my senses left me and I became unconscious.
It was now three weeks since the commencement of this
unaccountable state.
My sufferings had, during the last week, told upon my
appearance. I had grown pale, my eyes were dilated and

53
darkened underneath, and the languor which I had long felt
began to display itself in my countenance.
My father asked me often whether I was ill; but, with an
obstinacy which now seems to me unaccountable, I persisted
in assuring him that I was quite well.
In a sense this was true. I had no pain, I could complain of
no bodily derangement. My complaint seemed to be one of
the imagination, or the nerves, and, horrible as my sufferings
were, I kept them, with a morbid reserve, very nearly to
myself.
It could not be that terrible complaint which the peasants
called the oupire, for I had now been suffering for three
weeks, and they were seldom ill for much more than three
days, when death put an end to their miseries.
Carmilla complained of dreams and feverish sensations,
but by no means of so alarming a kind as mine. I say that
mine were extremely alarming. Had I been capable of
comprehending my condition, I would have invoked aid and
advice on my knees. The narcotic of an unsuspected
influence was acting upon me, and my perceptions were
benumbed.
I am going to tell you now of a dream that led immediately
to an odd discovery.
One night, instead of the voice I was accustomed to hear in
the dark, I heard one, sweet and tender, and at the same time
terrible, which said,
“Your mother warns you to beware of the assassin.” At the
same time a light unexpectedly sprang up, and I saw
Carmilla, standing, near the foot of my bed, in her white

54
nightdress, bathed, from her chin to her feet, in one great
stain of blood.
I wakened with a shriek, possessed with the one idea that
Carmilla was being murdered. I remember springing from my
bed, and my next recollection is that of standing on the lobby,
crying for help.
Madame and Mademoiselle came scurrying out of their
rooms in alarm; a lamp burned always on the lobby, and
seeing me, they soon learned the cause of my terror.
I insisted on our knocking at Carmilla’s door. Our
knocking was unanswered.
It soon became a pounding and an uproar. We shrieked her
name, but all was vain.
We all grew frightened, for the door was locked. We
hurried back, in panic, to my room. There we rang the bell
long and furiously. If my father’s room had been at that side
of the house, we would have called him up at once to our aid.
But, alas! he was quite out of hearing, and to reach him
involved an excursion for which we none of us had courage.
Servants, however, soon came running up the stairs; I had
got on my dressing gown and slippers meanwhile, and my
companions were already similarly furnished. Recognizing
the voices of the servants on the lobby, we sallied out
together; and having renewed, as fruitlessly, our summons at
Carmilla’s door, I ordered the men to force the lock. They did
so, and we stood, holding our lights aloft, in the doorway,
and so stared into the room.
We called her by name; but there was still no reply. We
looked round the room. Everything was undisturbed. It was

55
exactly in the state in which I had left it on bidding her good
night. But Carmilla was gone.
VIII.
Search
At sight of the room, perfectly undisturbed except for our
violent entrance, we began to cool a little, and soon recovered
our senses sufficiently to dismiss the men. It had struck
Mademoiselle that possibly Carmilla had been wakened by
the uproar at her door, and in her first panic had jumped from
her bed, and hid herself in a press, or behind a curtain, from
which she could not, of course, emerge until the majordomo
and his myrmidons had withdrawn. We now recommenced
our search, and began to call her name again.
It was all to no purpose. Our perplexity and agitation
increased. We examined the windows, but they were secured.
I implored of Carmilla, if she had concealed herself, to play
this cruel trick no longer—to come out and to end our
anxieties. It was all useless. I was by this time convinced that
she was not in the room, nor in the dressing room, the door of
which was still locked on this side. She could not have passed
it. I was utterly puzzled. Had Carmilla discovered one of
those secret passages which the old housekeeper said were
known to exist in the schloss, although the tradition of their
exact situation had been lost? A little time would, no doubt,
explain all—utterly perplexed as, for the present, we were.
It was past four o’clock, and I preferred passing the
remaining hours of darkness in Madame’s room. Daylight
brought no solution of the difficulty.

56
 The whole household, with my father at its head, was in a
state of agitation next morning. Every part of the chateau was
searched. The grounds were explored. No trace of the
missing lady could be discovered. The stream was about to
be dragged; my father was in distraction; what a tale to have
to tell the poor girl’s mother on her return. I, too, was almost
beside myself, though my grief was quite of a different kind.
The morning was passed in alarm and excitement. It was
now one o’clock, and still no tidings. I ran up to Carmilla’s
room, and found her standing at her dressing table. I was
astounded. I could not believe my eyes. She beckoned me to
her with her pretty finger, in silence. Her face expressed
extreme fear.
I ran to her in an ecstasy of joy; I kissed and embraced her
again and again. I ran to the bell and rang it vehemently, to
bring others to the spot who might at once relieve my father’s
anxiety.
“Dear Carmilla, what has become of you all this time? We
have been in agonies of anxiety about you,” I exclaimed.
“Where have you been? How did you come back?”
“Last night has been a night of wonders,” she said.
“For mercy’s sake, explain all you can.”
“It was past two last night,” she said, “when I went to sleep
as usual in my bed, with my doors locked, that of the dressing
room, and that opening upon the gallery. My sleep was
uninterrupted, and, so far as I know, dreamless; but I woke
just now on the sofa in the dressing room there, and I found
the door between the rooms open, and the other door forced.
How could all this have happened without my being
wakened? It must have been accompanied with a great deal
57
of noise, and I am particularly easily wakened; and how
could I have been carried out of my bed without my sleep
having been interrupted, I whom the slightest stir startles?”
By this time, Madame, Mademoiselle, my father, and a
number of the servants were in the room. Carmilla was, of
course, overwhelmed with inquiries, congratulations, and
welcomes. She had but one story to tell, and seemed the least
able of all the party to suggest any way of accounting for
what had happened.
My father took a turn up and down the room, thinking. I
saw Carmilla’s eye follow him for a moment with a sly, dark
glance.
When my father had sent the servants away, Mademoiselle
having gone in search of a little bottle of valerian and
salvolatile, and there being no one now in the room with
Carmilla, except my father, Madame, and myself, he came to
her thoughtfully, took her hand very kindly, led her to the
sofa, and sat down beside her.
“Will you forgive me, my dear, if I risk a conjecture, and
ask a question?”
“Who can have a better right?” she said. “Ask what you
please, and I will tell you everything. But my story is simply
one of bewilderment and darkness. I know absolutely
nothing. Put any question you please, but you know, of
course, the limitations mamma has placed me under.”
“Perfectly, my dear child. I need not approach the topics on
which she desires our silence. Now, the marvel of last night
consists in your having been removed from your bed and
your room, without being wakened, and this removal having
occurred apparently while the windows were still secured,
58
and the two doors locked upon the inside. I will tell you my
theory and ask you a question.”
Carmilla was leaning on her hand dejectedly; Madame and
I were listening breathlessly.
“Now, my question is this. Have you ever been suspected
of walking in your sleep?”
“Never, since I was very young indeed.”
“But you did walk in your sleep when you were young?”
“Yes; I know I did. I have been told so often by my old
nurse.”
My father smiled and nodded.
“Well, what has happened is this. You got up in your sleep,
unlocked the door, not leaving the key, as usual, in the lock,
but taking it out and locking it on the outside; you again took
the key out, and carried it away with you to some one of the
five-and-twenty rooms on this floor, or perhaps upstairs or
downstairs. There are so many rooms and closets, so much
heavy furniture, and such accumulations of lumber, that it
would require a week to search this old house thoroughly. Do
you see, now, what I mean?”
“I do, but not all,” she answered.
“And how, papa, do you account for her finding herself on
the sofa in the dressing room, which we had searched so
carefully?”
“She came there after you had searched it, still in her sleep,
and at last awoke spontaneously, and was as much surprised
to find herself where she was as any one else. I wish all
mysteries were as easily and innocently explained as yours,
Carmilla,” he said, laughing. “And so we may congratulate
ourselves on the certainty that the most natural explanation of
59
the occurrence is one that involves no drugging, no tampering
with locks, no burglars, or poisoners, or witches—nothing
that need alarm Carmilla, or anyone else, for our safety.”
Carmilla was looking charmingly. Nothing could be more
beautiful than her tints. Her beauty was, I think, enhanced by
that graceful languor that was peculiar to her. I think my
father was silently contrasting her looks with mine, for he
said:
“I wish my poor Laura was looking more like herself”; and
he sighed.
So our alarms were happily ended, and Carmilla restored to
her friends.
IX.
The Doctor
As Carmilla would not hear of an attendant sleeping in her
room, my father arranged that a servant should sleep outside
her door, so that she would not attempt to make another such
excursion without being arrested at her own door.
That night passed quietly; and next morning early, the
doctor, whom my father had sent for without telling me a
word about it, arrived to see me.
Madame accompanied me to the library; and there the
grave little doctor, with white hair and spectacles, whom I
mentioned before, was waiting to receive me.
I told him my story, and as I proceeded he grew graver and
graver.
We were standing, he and I, in the recess of one of the
windows, facing one another. When my statement was over,

60
he leaned with his shoulders against the wall, and with his
eyes fixed on me earnestly, with an interest in which was a
dash of horror.
After a minute’s reflection, he asked Madame if he could
see my father.
He was sent for accordingly, and as he entered, smiling, he
said:
“I dare say, doctor, you are going to tell me that I am an
old fool for having brought you here; I hope I am.”
But his smile faded into shadow as the doctor, with a very
grave face, beckoned him to him.
He and the doctor talked for some time in the same recess
where I had just conferred with the physician. It seemed an
earnest and argumentative conversation. The room is very
large, and I and Madame stood together, burning with
curiosity, at the farther end. Not a word could we hear,
however, for they spoke in a very low tone, and the deep
recess of the window quite concealed the doctor from view,
and very nearly my father, whose foot, arm, and shoulder
only could we see; and the voices were, I suppose, all the less
audible for the sort of closet which the thick wall and
window formed.
After a time my father’s face looked into the room; it was
pale, thoughtful, and, I fancied, agitated.
“Laura, dear, come here for a moment. Madame, we shan’t
trouble you, the doctor says, at present.”
Accordingly I approached, for the first time a little
alarmed; for, although I felt very weak, I did not feel ill; and
strength, one always fancies, is a thing that may be picked up
when we please.
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 My father held out his hand to me, as I drew near, but he
was looking at the doctor, and he said:
“It certainly is very odd; I don’t understand it quite. Laura,
come here, dear; now attend to Doctor Spielsberg, and
recollect yourself.”
“You mentioned a sensation like that of two needles
piercing the skin, somewhere about your neck, on the night
when you experienced your first horrible dream. Is there still
any soreness?”
“None at all,” I answered.
“Can you indicate with your finger about the point at which
you think this occurred?”
“Very little below my throat—here,” I answered.
I wore a morning dress, which covered the place I pointed
to.
“Now you can satisfy yourself,” said the doctor. “You
won’t mind your papa’s lowering your dress a very little. It is
necessary, to detect a symptom of the complaint under which
you have been suffering.”
I acquiesced. It was only an inch or two below the edge of
my collar.
“God bless me!—so it is,” exclaimed my father, growing
pale.
“You see it now with your own eyes,” said the doctor, with
a gloomy triumph.
“What is it?” I exclaimed, beginning to be frightened.
“Nothing, my dear young lady, but a small blue spot, about
the size of the tip of your little finger; and now,” he

62
continued, turning to papa, “the question is what is best to be
done?”
Is there any danger?”I urged, in great trepidation.
“I trust not, my dear,” answered the doctor. “I don’t see
why you should not recover. I don’t see why you should not
begin immediately to get better. That is the point at which the
sense of strangulation begins?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“And—recollect as well as you can—the same point was a
kind of center of that thrill which you described just now, like
the current of a cold stream running against you?”
“It may have been; I think it was.”
“Ay, you see?” he added, turning to my father. “Shall I say
a word to Madame?”
“Certainly,” said my father.
He called Madame to him, and said:
“I find my young friend here far from well. It won’t be of
any great consequence, I hope; but it will be necessary that
some steps be taken, which I will explain by-and-by; but in
the meantime, Madame, you will be so good as not to let
Miss Laura be alone for one moment. That is the only
direction I need give for the present. It is indispensable.”
“We may rely upon your kindness, Madame, I know,”
added my father.
Madame satisfied him eagerly.
“And you, dear Laura, I know you will observe the
doctor’s direction.”
“I shall have to ask your opinion upon another patient,
whose symptoms slightly resemble those of my daughter, that
63
have just been detailed to you—very much milder in degree,
but I believe quite of the same sort. She is a young lady—our
guest; but as you say you will be passing this way again this
evening, you can’t do better than take your supper here, and
you can then see her. She does not come down till the
afternoon.”
“I thank you,” said the doctor. “I shall be with you, then, at
about seven this evening.”
And then they repeated their directions to me and to
Madame, and with this parting charge my father left us, and
walked out with the doctor; and I saw them pacing together
up and down between the road and the moat, on the grassy
platform in front of the castle, evidently absorbed in earnest
conversation.
The doctor did not return. I saw him mount his horse there,
take his leave, and ride away eastward through the forest.
Nearly at the same time I saw the man arrive from
Dranfield with the letters, and dismount and hand the bag to
my father.
In the meantime, Madame and I were both busy, lost in
conjecture as to the reasons of the singular and earnest
direction which the doctor and my father had concurred in
imposing. Madame, as she afterwards told me, was afraid the
doctor apprehended a sudden seizure, and that, without
prompt assistance, I might either lose my life in a fit, or at
least be seriously hurt.
The interpretation did not strike me; and I fancied, perhaps
luckily for my nerves, that the arrangement was prescribed
simply to secure a companion, who would prevent my taking
too much exercise, or eating unripe fruit, or doing any of the
64
fifty foolish things to which young people are supposed to be
prone.
About half an hour after my father came in—he had a letter
in his hand—and said:
“This letter had been delayed; it is from General
Spielsdorf. He might have been here yesterday, he may not
come till tomorrow or he may be here today.”
He put the open letter into my hand; but he did not look
pleased, as he used when a guest, especially one so much
loved as the General, was coming.
On the contrary, he looked as if he wished him at the
bottom of the Red Sea. There was plainly something on his
mind which he did not choose to divulge.
“Papa, darling, will you tell me this?” said I, suddenly
laying my hand on his arm, and looking, I am sure,
imploringly in his face.
“Perhaps,” he answered, smoothing my hair caressingly
over my eyes.
“Does the doctor think me very ill?”
“No, dear; he thinks, if right steps are taken, you will be
quite well again, at least, on the high road to a complete
recovery, in a day or two,” he answered, a little dryly. “I wish
our good friend, the General, had chosen any other time; that
is, I wish you had been perfectly well to receive him.”
“But do tell me, papa,” I insisted, “what does he think is
the matter with me?”
“Nothing; you must not plague me with questions,” he
answered, with more irritation than I ever remember him to
have displayed before; and seeing that I looked wounded, I
suppose, he kissed me, and added, “You shall know all about
65
it in a day or two; that is, all that I know. In the meantime
you are not to trouble your head about it.”
He turned and left the room, but came back before I had
done wondering and puzzling over the oddity of all this; it
was merely to say that he was going to Karnstein, and had
ordered the carriage to be ready at twelve, and that I and
Madame should accompany him; he was going to see the
priest who lived near those picturesque grounds, upon
business, and as Carmilla had never seen them, she could
follow, when she came down, with Mademoiselle, who
would bring materials for what you call a picnic, which might
be laid for us in the ruined castle.
At twelve o’clock, accordingly, I was ready, and not long
after, my father, Madame and I set out upon our projected
drive.
Passing the drawbridge we turn to the right, and follow the
road over the steep Gothic bridge, westward, to reach the
deserted village and ruined castle of Karnstein.
No sylvan drive can be fancied prettier. The ground breaks
into gentle hills and hollows, all clothed with beautiful wood,
totally destitute of the comparative formality which artificial
planting and early culture and pruning impart.
The irregularities of the ground often lead the road out of
its course, and cause it to wind beautifully round the sides of
broken hollows and the steeper sides of the hills, among
varieties of ground almost inexhaustible.
Turning one of these points, we suddenly encountered our
old friend, the General, riding towards us, attended by a
mounted servant. His portmanteaus were following in a hired
wagon, such as we term a cart.
66
 The General dismounted as we pulled up, and, after the
usual greetings, was easily persuaded to accept the vacant
seat in the carriage and send his horse on with his servant to
the schloss.
X.
Bereaved
It was about ten months since we had last seen him: but
that time had sufficed to make an alteration of years in his
appearance. He had grown thinner; something of gloom and
anxiety had taken the place of that cordial serenity which
used to characterize his features. His dark blue eyes, always
penetrating, now gleamed with a sterner light from under his
shaggy grey eyebrows. It was not such a change as grief
alone usually induces, and angrier passions seemed to have
had their share in bringing it about.
We had not long resumed our drive, when the General
began to talk, with his usual soldierly directness, of the
bereavement, as he termed it, which he had sustained in the
death of his beloved niece and ward; and he then broke out in
a tone of intense bitterness and fury, inveighing against the
“hellish arts” to which she had fallen a victim, and
expressing, with more exasperation than piety, his wonder
that Heaven should tolerate so monstrous an indulgence of
the lusts and malignity of hell.
My father, who saw at once that something very
extraordinary had befallen, asked him, if not too painful to
him, to detail the circumstances which he thought justified
the strong terms in which he expressed himself.

67
 “I should tell you all with pleasure,” said the General, “but
you would not believe me.”
“Why should I not?” he asked.
“Because,” he answered testily, “you believe in nothing but
what consists with your own prejudices and illusions. I
remember when I was like you, but I have learned better.”
“Try me,” said my father; “I am not such a dogmatist as
you suppose.
Besides which, I very well know that you generally require
proof for what you believe, and am, therefore, very strongly
predisposed to respect your conclusions.”
“You are right in supposing that I have not been led lightly
into a belief in the marvelous—for what I have experienced is
marvelous—and I have been forced by extraordinary
evidence to credit that which ran counter, diametrically, to all
my theories. I have been made the dupe of a preternatural
conspiracy.”
Notwithstanding his professions of confidence in the
General’s penetration, I saw my father, at this point, glance at
the General, with, as I thought, a marked suspicion of his
sanity.
The General did not see it, luckily. He was looking
gloomily and curiously into the glades and vistas of the
woods that were opening before us.
“You are going to the Ruins of Karnstein?” he said. “Yes,
it is a lucky coincidence; do you know I was going to ask you
to bring me there to inspect them. I have a special object in
exploring. There is a ruined chapel, ain’t there, with a great
many tombs of that extinct family?”

68
 “So there are—highly interesting,” said my father. “I hope
you are thinking of claiming the title and estates?”
My father said this gaily, but the General did not recollect
the laugh, or even the smile, which courtesy exacts for a
friend’s joke; on the contrary, he looked grave and even
fierce, ruminating on a matter that stirred his anger and
horror.
“Something very different,” he said, gruffly. “I mean to
unearth some of those fine people. I hope, by God’s blessing,
to accomplish a pious sacrilege here, which will relieve our
earth of certain monsters, and enable honest people to sleep
in their beds without being assailed by murderers. I have
strange things to tell you, my dear friend, such as I myself
would have scouted as incredible a few months since.”
My father looked at him again, but this time not with a
glance of suspicion—with an eye, rather, of keen intelligence
and alarm.
“The house of Karnstein,” he said, “has been long extinct:
a hundred years at least. My dear wife was maternally
descended from the Karnsteins. But the name and title have
long ceased to exist. The castle is a ruin; the very village is
deserted; it is fifty years since the smoke of a chimney was
seen there; not a roof left.”
“Quite true. I have heard a great deal about that since I last
saw you; a great deal that will astonish you. But I had better
relate everything in the order in which it occurred,” said the
General. “You saw my dear ward—my child, I may call her.
No creature could have been more beautiful, and only three
months ago none more blooming.”

69
 “Yes, poor thing! when I saw her last she certainly was
quite lovely,” said my father. “I was grieved and shocked
more than I can tell you, my dear friend; I knew what a blow
it was to you.”
He took the General’s hand, and they exchanged a kind
pressure. Tears gathered in the old soldier’s eyes. He did not
seek to conceal them. He said:
“We have been very old friends; I knew you would feel for
me, childless as I am. She had become an object of very near
interest to me, and repaid my care by an affection that
cheered my home and made my life happy. That is all gone.
The years that remain to me on earth may not be very long;
but by God’s mercy I hope to accomplish a service to
mankind before I die, and to subserve the vengeance of
Heaven upon the fiends who have murdered my poor child in
the spring of her hopes and beauty!”
“You said, just now, that you intended relating everything
as it occurred,” said my father. “Pray do; I assure you that it
is not mere curiosity that prompts me.”
By this time we had reached the point at which the
Drunstall road, by which the General had come, diverges
from the road which we were traveling to Karnstein.
“How far is it to the ruins?” inquired the General, looking
anxiously forward.
“About half a league,” answered my father. “Pray let us
hear the story you were so good as to promise.”
XI.
The Story

70
 With all my heart,” said the General, with an effort; and
after a short pause in which to arrange his subject, he
commenced one of the strangest narratives I ever heard.
“My dear child was looking forward with great pleasure to
the visit you had been so good as to arrange for her to your
charming daughter.” Here he made me a gallant but
melancholy bow. “In the meantime we had an invitation to
my old friend the Count Carlsfeld, whose schloss is about six
leagues to the other side of Karnstein. It was to attend the
series of fetes which, you remember, were given by him in
honor of his illustrious visitor, the Grand Duke Charles.”
“Yes; and very splendid, I believe, they were,” said my
father.
“Princely! But then his hospitalities are quite regal. He has
Aladdin’s lamp. The night from which my sorrow dates was
devoted to a magnificent masquerade. The grounds were
thrown open, the trees hung with colored lamps. There was
such a display of fireworks as Paris itself had never
witnessed. And such music—music, you know, is my
weakness—such ravishing music! The finest instrumental
band, perhaps, in the world, and the finest singers who could
be collected from all the great operas in Europe. As you
wandered through these fantastically illuminated grounds, the
moon-lighted chateau throwing a rosy light from its long
rows of windows, you would suddenly hear these ravishing
voices stealing from the silence of some grove, or rising from
boats upon the lake. I felt myself, as I looked and listened,
carried back into the romance and poetry of my early youth.
“When the fireworks were ended, and the ball beginning,
we returned to the noble suite of rooms that were thrown
open to the dancers. A masked ball, you know, is a beautiful
71
sight; but so brilliant a spectacle of the kind I never saw
before.
“It was a very aristocratic assembly. I was myself almost
the only ‘nobody’ present.
“My dear child was looking quite beautiful. She wore no
mask. Her excitement and delight added an unspeakable
charm to her features, always lovely. I remarked a young
lady, dressed magnificently, but wearing a mask, who
appeared to me to be observing my ward with extraordinary
interest. I had seen her, earlier in the evening, in the great
hall, and again, for a few minutes, walking near us, on the
terrace under the castle windows, similarly employed. A
lady, also masked, richly and gravely dressed, and with a
stately air, like a person of rank, accompanied her as a
chaperon.
Had the young lady not worn a mask, I could, of course,
have been much more certain upon the question whether she
was really watching my poor darling.
I am now well assured that she was.
“We were now in one of the salons. My poor dear child
had been dancing, and was resting a little in one of the chairs
near the door; I was standing near. The two ladies I have
mentioned had approached and the younger took the chair
next my ward; while her companion stood beside me, and for
a little time addressed herself, in a low tone, to her charge.
“Availing herself of the privilege of her mask, she turned
to me, and in the tone of an old friend, and calling me by my
name, opened a conversation with me, which piqued my
curiosity a good deal. She referred to many scenes where she
had met me—at Court, and at distinguished houses. She
72
alluded to little incidents which I had long ceased to think of,
but which, I found, had only lain in abeyance in my memory,
for they instantly started into life at her touch.
“I became more and more curious to ascertain who she
was, every moment. She parried my attempts to discover very
adroitly and pleasantly. The knowledge she showed of many
passages in my life seemed to me all but unaccountable; and
she appeared to take a not unnatural pleasure in foiling my
curiosity, and in seeing me flounder in my eager perplexity,
from one conjecture to another.
“In the meantime the young lady, whom her mother called
by the odd name of Millarca, when she once or twice
addressed her, had, with the same ease and grace, got into
conversation with my ward.
“She introduced herself by saying that her mother was a
very old acquaintance of mine. She spoke of the agreeable
audacity which a mask rendered practicable; she talked like a
friend; she admired her dress, and insinuated very prettily her
admiration of her beauty. She amused her with laughing
criticisms upon the people who crowded the ballroom, and
laughed at my poor child’s fun. She was very witty and lively
when she pleased, and after a time they had grown very good
friends, and the young stranger lowered her mask, displaying
a remarkably beautiful face. I had never seen it before,
neither had my dear child. But though it was new to us, the
features were so engaging, as well as lovely, that it was
impossible not to feel the attraction powerfully. My poor girl
did so. I never saw anyone more taken with another at first
sight, unless, indeed, it was the stranger herself, who seemed
quite to have lost her heart to her.

73
 “In the meantime, availing myself of the license of a
masquerade, I put not a few questions to the elder lady.
“‘You have puzzled me utterly,’ I said, laughing. ‘Is that
not enough?
Won’t you, now, consent to stand on equal terms, and do
me the kindness to remove your mask?’
“‘Can any request be more unreasonable?’ she replied.
‘Ask a lady to yield an advantage! Beside, how do you know
you should recognize me? Years make changes.’
“‘As you see,’ I said, with a bow, and, I suppose, a rather
melancholy little laugh.
“‘As philosophers tell us,’ she said; ‘and how do you know
that a sight of my face would help you?’
“‘I should take chance for that,’ I answered. ‘It is vain
trying to make yourself out an old woman; your figure
betrays you.’
“‘Years, nevertheless, have passed since I saw you, rather
since you saw me, for that is what I am considering. Millarca,
there, is my daughter; I cannot then be young, even in the
opinion of people whom time has taught to be indulgent, and
I may not like to be compared with what you remember me.
You have no mask to remove. You can offer me nothing in
exchange.’
“‘My petition is to your pity, to remove it.’
“‘And mine to yours, to let it stay where it is,’ she replied.
“‘Well, then, at least you will tell me whether you are
French or German; you speak both languages so perfectly.’
“‘I don’t think I shall tell you that, General; you intend a
surprise, and are meditating the particular point of attack.’
74
 “‘At all events, you won’t deny this,’ I said, ‘that being
honored by your permission to converse, I ought to know
how to address you. Shall I say Madame la Comtesse?’
“She laughed, and she would, no doubt, have met me with
another evasion—if, indeed, I can treat any occurrence in an
interview every circumstance of which was prearranged, as I
now believe, with the profoundest cunning, as liable to be
modified by accident.
“‘As to that,’ she began; but she was interrupted, almost as
she opened her lips, by a gentleman, dressed in black, who
looked particularly elegant and distinguished, with this
drawback, that his face was the most deadly pale I ever saw,
except in death. He was in no masquerade—in the plain
evening dress of a gentleman; and he said, without a smile,
but with a courtly and unusually low bow:—
“‘Will Madame la Comtesse permit me to say a very few
words which may interest her?’
“The lady turned quickly to him, and touched her lip in
token of silence; she then said to me, ‘Keep my place for me,
General; I shall return when I have said a few words.’
“And with this injunction, playfully given, she walked a
little aside with the gentleman in black, and talked for some
minutes, apparently very earnestly. They then walked away
slowly together in the crowd, and I lost them for some
minutes.
“I spent the interval in cudgeling my brains for a conjecture
as to the identity of the lady who seemed to remember me so
kindly, and I was thinking of turning about and joining in the
conversation between my pretty ward and the Countess’s
daughter, and trying whether, by the time she returned, I
75
might not have a surprise in store for her, by having her
name, title, chateau, and estates at my fingers’ ends. But at
this moment she returned, accompanied by the pale man in
black, who said:
“‘I shall return and inform Madame la Comtesse when her
carriage is at the door.’
“He withdrew with a bow.”
XII.
A Petition
“‘Then we are to lose Madame la Comtesse, but I hope
only for a few hours,’ I said, with a low bow.
“‘It may be that only, or it may be a few weeks. It was very
unlucky his speaking to me just now as he did. Do you now
know me?’
“I assured her I did not.
“‘You shall know me,’ she said, ‘but not at present. We are
older and better friends than, perhaps, you suspect. I cannot
yet declare myself. I shall in three weeks pass your beautiful
schloss, about which I have been making enquiries. I shall
then look in upon you for an hour or two, and renew a
friendship which I never think of without a thousand pleasant
recollections. This moment a piece of news has reached me
like a thunderbolt. I must set out now, and travel by a devious
route, nearly a hundred miles, with all the dispatch I can
possibly make. My perplexities multiply. I am only deterred
by the compulsory reserve I practice as to my name from
making a very singular request of you. My poor child has not
quite recovered her strength. Her horse fell with her, at a hunt
which she had ridden out to witness, her nerves have not yet
76
recovered the shock, and our physician says that she must on
no account exert herself for some time to come. We came
here, in consequence, by very easy stages—hardly six
leagues a day. I must now travel day and night, on a mission
of life and death—a mission the critical and momentous
nature of which I shall be able to explain to you when we
meet, as I hope we shall, in a few weeks, without the
necessity of any concealment.’
“She went on to make her petition, and it was in the tone of
a person from whom such a request amounted to conferring,
rather than seeking a favor.
This was only in manner, and, as it seemed, quite
unconsciously. Than the terms in which it was expressed,
nothing could be more deprecatory. It was simply that I
would consent to take charge of her daughter during her
absence.
“This was, all things considered, a strange, not to say, an
audacious request. She in some sort disarmed me, by stating
and admitting everything that could be urged against it, and
throwing herself entirely upon my chivalry. At the same
moment, by a fatality that seems to have predetermined all
that happened, my poor child came to my side, and, in an
undertone, besought me to invite her new friend, Millarca, to
pay us a visit. She had just been sounding her, and thought, if
her mamma would allow her, she would like it extremely.
“At another time I should have told her to wait a little,
until, at least, we knew who they were. But I had not a
moment to think in. The two ladies assailed me together, and
I must confess the refined and beautiful face of the young
lady, about which there was something extremely engaging,
as well as the elegance and fire of high birth, determined me;
77
and, quite overpowered, I submitted, and undertook, too
easily, the care of the young lady, whom her mother called
Millarca.
“The Countess beckoned to her daughter, who listened
with grave attention while she told her, in general terms, how
suddenly and peremptorily she had been summoned, and also
of the arrangement she had made for her under my care,
adding that I was one of her earliest and most valued friends.
“I made, of course, such speeches as the case seemed to
call for, and found myself, on reflection, in a position which I
did not half like.
“The gentleman in black returned, and very ceremoniously
conducted the lady from the room.
“The demeanor of this gentleman was such as to impress
me with the conviction that the Countess was a lady of very
much more importance than her modest title alone might
have led me to assume.
“Her last charge to me was that no attempt was to be made
to learn more about her than I might have already guessed,
until her return. Our distinguished host, whose guest she was,
knew her reasons.
“‘But here,’ she said, ‘neither I nor my daughter could
safely remain for more than a day. I removed my mask
imprudently for a moment, about an hour ago, and, too late, I
fancied you saw me. So I resolved to seek an opportunity of
talking a little to you. Had I found that you had seen me, I
would have thrown myself on your high sense of honor to
keep my secret some weeks. As it is, I am satisfied that you
did not see me; but if you now suspect, or, on reflection,
should suspect, who I am, I commit myself, in like manner,
78
entirely to your honor. My daughter will observe the same
secrecy, and I well know that you will, from time to time,
remind her, lest she should thoughtlessly disclose it.’
“She whispered a few words to her daughter, kissed her
hurriedly twice, and went away, accompanied by the pale
gentleman in black, and disappeared in the crowd.
“‘In the next room,’ said Millarca, ‘there is a window that
looks upon the hall door. I should like to see the last of
mamma, and to kiss my hand to her.’
“We assented, of course, and accompanied her to the
window. We looked out, and saw a handsome old-fashioned
carriage, with a troop of couriers and footmen. We saw the
slim figure of the pale gentleman in black, as he held a thick
velvet cloak, and placed it about her shoulders and threw the
hood over her head. She nodded to him, and just touched his
hand with hers. He bowed low repeatedly as the door closed,
and the carriage began to move.
“‘She is gone,’ said Millarca, with a sigh.
“‘She is gone,’ I repeated to myself, for the first time—in
the hurried moments that had elapsed since my consent—
reflecting upon the folly of my act.
“‘She did not look up,’ said the young lady, plaintively.
“‘The Countess had taken off her mask, perhaps, and did
not care to show her face,’ I said; ‘and she could not know
that you were in the window.’
“She sighed, and looked in my face. She was so beautiful
that I relented. I was sorry I had for a moment repented of my
hospitality, and I determined to make her amends for the
unavowed churlishness of my reception.

79
 “The young lady, replacing her mask, joined my ward in
persuading me to return to the grounds, where the concert
was soon to be renewed. We did so, and walked up and down
the terrace that lies under the castle windows.
Millarca became very intimate with us, and amused us with
lively descriptions and stories of most of the great people
whom we saw upon the terrace. I liked her more and more
every minute. Her gossip without being ill-natured, was
extremely diverting to me, who had been so long out of the
great world. I thought what life she would give to our
sometimes lonely evenings at home.
“This ball was not over until the morning sun had almost
reached the horizon. It pleased the Grand Duke to dance till
then, so loyal people could not go away, or think of bed.
“We had just got through a crowded saloon, when my ward
asked me what had become of Millarca. I thought she had
been by her side, and she fancied she was by mine. The fact
was, we had lost her.
“All my efforts to find her were vain. I feared that she had
mistaken, in the confusion of a momentary separation from
us, other people for her new friends, and had, possibly,
pursued and lost them in the extensive grounds which were
thrown open to us.
“Now, in its full force, I recognized a new folly in my
having undertaken the charge of a young lady without so
much as knowing her name; and fettered as I was by
promises, of the reasons for imposing which I knew nothing,
I could not even point my inquiries by saying that the missing
young lady was the daughter of the Countess who had taken
her departure a few hours before.

80
 “Morning broke. It was clear daylight before I gave up my
search. It was not till near two o’clock next day that we heard
anything of my missing charge.
“At about that time a servant knocked at my niece’s door,
to say that he had been earnestly requested by a young lady,
who appeared to be in great distress, to make out where she
could find the General Baron Spielsdorf and the young lady
his daughter, in whose charge she had been left by her
mother.
“There could be no doubt, notwithstanding the slight
inaccuracy, that our young friend had turned up; and so she
had. Would to heaven we had lost her!
“She told my poor child a story to account for her having
failed to recover us for so long. Very late, she said, she had
got to the housekeeper’s bedroom in despair of finding us,
and had then fallen into a deep sleep which, long as it was,
had hardly sufficed to recruit her strength after the fatigues of
the ball.
“That day Millarca came home with us. I was only too
happy, after all, to have secured so charming a companion for
my dear girl.”
XIII.
The Woodman
“There soon, however, appeared some drawbacks. In the
first place, Millarca complained of extreme languor—the
weakness that remained after her late illness—and she never
emerged from her room till the afternoon was pretty far
advanced. In the next place, it was accidentally discovered,
although she always locked her door on the inside, and never
81
disturbed the key from its place till she admitted the maid to
assist at her toilet, that she was undoubtedly sometimes
absent from her room in the very early morning, and at
various times later in the day, before she wished it to be
understood that she was stirring. She was repeatedly seen
from the windows of the schloss, in the first faint grey of the
morning, walking through the trees, in an easterly direction,
and looking like a person in a trance. This convinced me that
she walked in her sleep. But this hypothesis did not solve the
puzzle. How did she pass out from her room, leaving the door
locked on the inside? How did she escape from the house
without unbarring door or window?
“In the midst of my perplexities, an anxiety of a far more
urgent kind presented itself.
“My dear child began to lose her looks and health, and that
in a manner so mysterious, and even horrible, that I became
thoroughly frightened.
“She was at first visited by appalling dreams; then, as she
fancied, by a specter, sometimes resembling Millarca,
sometimes in the shape of a beast, indistinctly seen, walking
round the foot of her bed, from side to side.
Lastly came sensations. One, not unpleasant, but very
peculiar, she said, resembled the flow of an icy stream
against her breast. At a later time, she felt something like a
pair of large needles pierce her, a little below the throat, with
a very sharp pain. A few nights after, followed a gradual and
convulsive sense of strangulation; then came
unconsciousness.”
I could hear distinctly every word the kind old General was
saying, because by this time we were driving upon the short

82
grass that spreads on either side of the road as you approach
the roofless village which had not shown the smoke of a
chimney for more than half a century.
You may guess how strangely I felt as I heard my own
symptoms so exactly described in those which had been
experienced by the poor girl who, but for the catastrophe
which followed, would have been at that moment a visitor at
my father’s chateau. You may suppose, also, how I felt as I
heard him detail habits and mysterious peculiarities which
were, in fact, those of our beautiful guest, Carmilla!
A vista opened in the forest; we were on a sudden under
the chimneys and gables of the ruined village, and the towers
and battlements of the dismantled castle, round which
gigantic trees are grouped, overhung us from a slight
eminence.
In a frightened dream I got down from the carriage, and in
silence, for we had each abundant matter for thinking; we
soon mounted the ascent, and were among the spacious
chambers, winding stairs, and dark corridors of the castle.
“And this was once the palatial residence of the
Karnsteins!” said the old General at length, as from a great
window he looked out across the village, and saw the wide,
undulating expanse of forest. “It was a bad family, and here
its bloodstained annals were written,” he continued. “It is
hard that they should, after death, continue to plague the
human race with their atrocious lusts. That is the chapel of
the Karnsteins, down there.”
He pointed down to the grey walls of the Gothic building
partly visible through the foliage, a little way down the steep.
“And I hear the axe of a woodman,” he added, “busy among

83
the trees that surround it; he possibly may give us the
information of which I am in search, and point out the grave
of Mircalla, Countess of Karnstein. These rustics preserve the
local traditions of great families, whose stories die out among
the rich and titled so soon as the families themselves become
extinct.”
“We have a portrait, at home, of Mircalla, the Countess
Karnstein; should you like to see it?” asked my father.
“Time enough, dear friend,” replied the General. “I believe
that I have seen the original; and one motive which has led
me to you earlier than I at first intended, was to explore the
chapel which we are now approaching.”
“What! see the Countess Mircalla,” exclaimed my father;
“why, she has been dead more than a century!”
“Not so dead as you fancy, I am told,” answered the
General.
“I confess, General, you puzzle me utterly,” replied my
father, looking at him, I fancied, for a moment with a return
of the suspicion I detected before. But although there was
anger and detestation, at times, in the old General’s manner,
there was nothing flighty.
“There remains to me,” he said, as we passed under the
heavy arch of the Gothic church—for its dimensions would
have justified its being so styled—“but one object which can
interest me during the few years that remain to me on earth,
and that is to wreak on her the vengeance which, I thank God,
may still be accomplished by a mortal arm.”
“What vengeance can you mean?” asked my father, in
increasing amazement.

84
 “I mean, to decapitate the monster,” he answered, with a
fierce flush, and a stamp that echoed mournfully through the
hollow ruin, and his clenched hand was at the same moment
raised, as if it grasped the handle of an axe, while he shook it
ferociously in the air.
“What?” exclaimed my father, more than ever bewildered.
“To strike her head off.”
“Cut her head off!”
“Aye, with a hatchet, with a spade, or with anything that
can cleave through her murderous throat. You shall hear,” he
answered, trembling with rage. And hurrying forward he
said:
“That beam will answer for a seat; your dear child is
fatigued; let her be seated, and I will, in a few sentences,
close my dreadful story.”
The squared block of wood, which lay on the grass-grown
pavement of the chapel, formed a bench on which I was very
glad to seat myself, and in the meantime the General called to
the woodman, who had been removing some boughs which
leaned upon the old walls; and, axe in hand, the hardy old
fellow stood before us.
He could not tell us anything of these monuments; but
there was an old man, he said, a ranger of this forest, at
present sojourning in the house of the priest, about two miles
away, who could point out every monument of the old
Karnstein family; and, for a trifle, he undertook to bring him
back with him, if we would lend him one of our horses, in
little more than half an hour.
“Have you been long employed about this forest?” asked
my father of the old man.
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 “I have been a woodman here,” he answered in his patois,
“under the forester, all my days; so has my father before me,
and so on, as many generations as I can count up. I could
show you the very house in the village here, in which my
ancestors lived.”
“How came the village to be deserted?” asked the General.
“It was troubled by revenants, sir; several were tracked to
their graves, there detected by the usual tests, and
extinguished in the usual way, by decapitation, by the stake,
and by burning; but not until many of the villagers were
killed.
“But after all these proceedings according to law,” he
continued—“so many graves opened, and so many vampires
deprived of their horrible animation—the village was not
relieved. But a Moravian nobleman, who happened to be
traveling this way, heard how matters were, and being skilled
—as many people are in his country—in such affairs, he
offered to deliver the village from its tormentor. He did so
thus: There being a bright moon that night, he ascended,
shortly after sunset, the towers of the chapel here, from
whence he could distinctly see the churchyard beneath him;
you can see it from that window. From this point he watched
until he saw the vampire come out of his grave, and place
near it the linen clothes in which he had been folded, and
then glide away towards the village to plague its inhabitants.
“The stranger, having seen all this, came down from the
steeple, took the linen wrappings of the vampire, and carried
them up to the top of the tower, which he again mounted.
When the vampire returned from his prowlings and missed
his clothes, he cried furiously to the Moravian, whom he saw
at the summit of the tower, and who, in reply, beckoned him
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to ascend and take them. Whereupon the vampire, accepting
his invitation, began to climb the steeple, and so soon as he
had reached the battlements, the Moravian, with a stroke of
his sword, clove his skull in twain, hurling him down to the
churchyard, whither, descending by the winding stairs, the
stranger followed and cut his head off, and next day delivered
it and the body to the villagers, who duly impaled and burnt
them.
“This Moravian nobleman had authority from the then head
of the family to remove the tomb of Mircalla, Countess
Karnstein, which he did effectually, so that in a little while its
site was quite forgotten.”
“Can you point out where it stood?” asked the General,
eagerly.
The forester shook his head, and smiled.
“Not a soul living could tell you that now,” he said;
“besides, they say her body was removed; but no one is sure
of that either.”
Having thus spoken, as time pressed, he dropped his axe
and departed, leaving us to hear the remainder of the
General’s strange story.
XIV.
The Meeting
“My beloved child,” he resumed, “was now growing
rapidly worse. The physician who attended her had failed to
produce the slightest impression on her disease, for such I
then supposed it to be. He saw my alarm, and suggested a
consultation. I called in an abler physician, from Gratz.

87
 Several days elapsed before he arrived. He was a good and
pious, as well as a learned man. Having seen my poor ward
together, they withdrew to my library to confer and discuss. I,
from the adjoining room, where I awaited their summons,
heard these two gentlemen’s voices raised in something
sharper than a strictly philosophical discussion. I knocked at
the door and entered. I found the old physician from Gratz
maintaining his theory. His rival was combating it with
undisguised ridicule, accompanied with bursts of laughter.
This unseemly manifestation subsided and the altercation
ended on my entrance.
“‘Sir,’ said my first physician,’my learned brother seems to
think that you want a conjuror, and not a doctor.’
“‘Pardon me,’ said the old physician from Gratz, looking
displeased, ‘I shall state my own view of the case in my own
way another time. I grieve, Monsieur le General, that by my
skill and science I can be of no use.
Before I go I shall do myself the honor to suggest
something to you.’
“He seemed thoughtful, and sat down at a table and began
to write.
Profoundly disappointed, I made my bow, and as I turned
to go, the other doctor pointed over his shoulder to his
companion who was writing, and then, with a shrug,
significantly touched his forehead.
“This consultation, then, left me precisely where I was. I
walked out into the grounds, all but distracted. The doctor
from Gratz, in ten or fifteen minutes, overtook me. He
apologized for having followed me, but said that he could not
conscientiously take his leave without a few words more. He
88
told me that he could not be mistaken; no natural disease
exhibited the same symptoms; and that death was already
very near. There remained, however, a day, or possibly two,
of life. If the fatal seizure were at once arrested, with great
care and skill her strength might possibly return. But all hung
now upon the confines of the irrevocable. One more assault
might extinguish the last spark of vitality which is, every
moment, ready to die.
“‘And what is the nature of the seizure you speak of?’ I
entreated.
“‘I have stated all fully in this note, which I place in your
hands upon the distinct condition that you send for the
nearest clergyman, and open my letter in his presence, and on
no account read it till he is with you; you would despise it
else, and it is a matter of life and death. Should the priest fail
you, then, indeed, you may read it.’
“He asked me, before taking his leave finally, whether I
would wish to see a man curiously learned upon the very
subject, which, after I had read his letter, would probably
interest me above all others, and he urged me earnestly to
invite him to visit him there; and so took his leave.
“The ecclesiastic was absent, and I read the letter by
myself. At another time, or in another case, it might have
excited my ridicule. But into what quackeries will not people
rush for a last chance, where all accustomed means have
failed, and the life of a beloved object is at stake?
“Nothing, you will say, could be more absurd than the
learned man’s letter.
It was monstrous enough to have consigned him to a
madhouse. He said that the patient was suffering from the
89
visits of a vampire! The punctures which she described as
having occurred near the throat, were, he insisted, the
insertion of those two long, thin, and sharp teeth which, it is
well known, are peculiar to vampires; and there could be no
doubt, he added, as to the well-defined presence of the small
livid mark which all concurred in describing as that induced
by the demon’s lips, and every symptom described by the
sufferer was in exact conformity with those recorded in every
case of a similar visitation.
“Being myself wholly skeptical as to the existence of any
such portent as the vampire, the supernatural theory of the
good doctor furnished, in my opinion, but another instance of
learning and intelligence oddly associated with some one
hallucination. I was so miserable, however, that, rather than
try nothing, I acted upon the instructions of the letter.
“I concealed myself in the dark dressing room, that opened
upon the poor patient’s room, in which a candle was burning,
and watched there till she was fast asleep. I stood at the door,
peeping through the small crevice, my sword laid on the table
beside me, as my directions prescribed, until, a little after
one, I saw a large black object, very ill-defined, crawl, as it
seemed to me, over the foot of the bed, and swiftly spread
itself up to the poor girl’s throat, where it swelled, in a
moment, into a great, palpitating mass.
“For a few moments I had stood petrified. I now sprang
forward, with my sword in my hand. The black creature
suddenly contracted towards the foot of the bed, glided over
it, and, standing on the floor about a yard below the foot of
the bed, with a glare of skulking ferocity and horror fixed on
me, I saw Millarca. Speculating I know not what, I struck at
her instantly with my sword; but I saw her standing near the
90
door, unscathed. Horrified, I pursued, and struck again. She
was gone; and my sword flew to shivers against the door.
“I can’t describe to you all that passed on that horrible
night. The whole house was up and stirring. The specter
Millarca was gone. But her victim was sinking fast, and
before the morning dawned, she died.”
The old General was agitated. We did not speak to him.
My father walked to some little distance, and began reading
the inscriptions on the tombstones; and thus occupied, he
strolled into the door of a side chapel to prosecute his
researches. The General leaned against the wall, dried his
eyes, and sighed heavily. I was relieved on hearing the voices
of Carmilla and Madame, who were at that moment
approaching. The voices died away.
In this solitude, having just listened to so strange a story,
connected, as it was, with the great and titled dead, whose
monuments were moldering among the dust and ivy round us,
and every incident of which bore so awfully upon my own
mysterious case—in this haunted spot, darkened by the
towering foliage that rose on every side, dense and high
above its noiseless walls—a horror began to steal over me,
and my heart sank as I thought that my friends were, after all,
not about to enter and disturb this triste and ominous scene.
The old General’s eyes were fixed on the ground, as he
leaned with his hand upon the basement of a shattered
monument.
Under a narrow, arched doorway, surmounted by one of
those demoniacal grotesques in which the cynical and ghastly
fancy of old Gothic carving delights, I saw very gladly the

91
beautiful face and figure of Carmilla enter the shadowy
chapel.
I was just about to rise and speak, and nodded smiling, in
answer to her peculiarly engaging smile; when with a cry, the
old man by my side caught up the woodman’s hatchet, and
started forward. On seeing him a brutalized change came
over her features. It was an instantaneous and horrible
transformation, as she made a crouching step backwards.
Before I could utter a scream, he struck at her with all his
force, but she dived under his blow, and unscathed, caught
him in her tiny grasp by the wrist. He struggled for a moment
to release his arm, but his hand opened, the axe fell to the
ground, and the girl was gone.
He staggered against the wall. His grey hair stood upon his
head, and a moisture shone over his face, as if he were at the
point of death.
The frightful scene had passed in a moment. The first thing
I recollect after, is Madame standing before me, and
impatiently repeating again and again, the question, “Where
is Mademoiselle Carmilla?”
I answered at length, “I don’t know—I can’t tell—she went
there,” and I pointed to the door through which Madame had
just entered; “only a minute or two since.”
“But I have been standing there, in the passage, ever since
Mademoiselle Carmilla entered; and she did not return.”
She then began to call “Carmilla,” through every door and
passage and from the windows, but no answer came.
“She called herself Carmilla?” asked the General, still
agitated.
“Carmilla, yes,” I answered.
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 “Aye,” he said; “that is Millarca. That is the same person
who long ago was called Mircalla, Countess Karnstein.
Depart from this accursed ground, my poor child, as quickly
as you can. Drive to the clergyman’s house, and stay there till
we come. Begone! May you never behold Carmilla more;
you will not find her here.”
XV.
Ordeal and Execution
As he spoke one of the strangest looking men I ever beheld
entered the chapel at the door through which Carmilla had
made her entrance and her exit. He was tall, narrow-chested,
stooping, with high shoulders, and dressed in black. His face
was brown and dried in with deep furrows; he wore an oddly-
shaped hat with a broad leaf. His hair, long and grizzled,
hung on his shoulders. He wore a pair of gold spectacles, and
walked slowly, with an odd shambling gait, with his face
sometimes turned up to the sky, and sometimes bowed down
towards the ground, seemed to wear a perpetual smile; his
long thin arms were swinging, and his lank hands, in old
black gloves ever so much too wide for them, waving and
gesticulating in utter abstraction.
“The very man!” exclaimed the General, advancing with
manifest delight. “My dear Baron, how happy I am to see
you, I had no hope of meeting you so soon.” He signed to my
father, who had by this time returned, and leading the
fantastic old gentleman, whom he called the Baron to meet
him. He introduced him formally, and they at once entered
into earnest conversation. The stranger took a roll of paper
from his pocket, and spread it on the worn surface of a tomb
that stood by. He had a pencil case in his fingers, with which
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he traced imaginary lines from point to point on the paper,
which from their often glancing from it, together, at certain
points of the building, I concluded to be a plan of the chapel.
He accompanied, what I may term, his lecture, with
occasional readings from a dirty little book, whose yellow
leaves were closely written over.
They sauntered together down the side aisle, opposite to
the spot where I was standing, conversing as they went; then
they began measuring distances by paces, and finally they all
stood together, facing a piece of the sidewall, which they
began to examine with great minuteness; pulling off the ivy
that clung over it, and rapping the plaster with the ends of
their sticks, scraping here, and knocking there. At length they
ascertained the existence of a broad marble tablet, with letters
carved in relief upon it.
With the assistance of the woodman, who soon returned, a
monumental inscription, and carved escutcheon, were
disclosed. They proved to be those of the long lost monument
of Mircalla, Countess Karnstein.
The old General, though not I fear given to the praying
mood, raised his hands and eyes to heaven, in mute
thanksgiving for some moments.
“Tomorrow,” I heard him say; “the commissioner will be
here, and the Inquisition will be held according to law.”
Then turning to the old man with the gold spectacles,
whom I have described, he shook him warmly by both hands
and said:
“Baron, how can I thank you? How can we all thank you?
You will have delivered this region from a plague that has

94
scourged its inhabitants for more than a century. The horrible
enemy, thank God, is at last tracked.”
My father led the stranger aside, and the General followed.
I know that he had led them out of hearing, that he might
relate my case, and I saw them glance often quickly at me, as
the discussion proceeded.
My father came to me, kissed me again and again, and
leading me from the chapel, said:
“It is time to return, but before we go home, we must add
to our party the good priest, who lives but a little way from
this; and persuade him to accompany us to the schloss.”
In this quest we were successful: and I was glad, being
unspeakably fatigued when we reached home. But my
satisfaction was changed to dismay, on discovering that there
were no tidings of Carmilla. Of the scene that had occurred in
the ruined chapel, no explanation was offered to me, and it
was clear that it was a secret which my father for the present
determined to keep from me.
The sinister absence of Carmilla made the remembrance of
the scene more horrible to me. The arrangements for the
night were singular. Two servants, and Madame were to sit
up in my room that night; and the ecclesiastic with my father
kept watch in the adjoining dressing room.
The priest had performed certain solemn rites that night,
the purport of which I did not understand any more than I
comprehended the reason of this extraordinary precaution
taken for my safety during sleep.
I saw all clearly a few days later.
The disappearance of Carmilla was followed by the
discontinuance of my nightly sufferings.
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 You have heard, no doubt, of the appalling superstition that
prevails in Upper and Lower Styria, in Moravia, Silesia, in
Turkish Serbia, in Poland, even in Russia; the superstition, so
we must call it, of the Vampire.
If human testimony, taken with every care and solemnity,
judicially, before commissions innumerable, each consisting
of many members, all chosen for integrity and intelligence,
and constituting reports more voluminous perhaps than exist
upon any one other class of cases, is worth anything, it is
difficult to deny, or even to doubt the existence of such a
phenomenon as the Vampire.
For my part I have heard no theory by which to explain
what I myself have witnessed and experienced, other than
that supplied by the ancient and well-attested belief of the
country.
The next day the formal proceedings took place in the
Chapel of Karnstein.
The grave of the Countess Mircalla was opened; and the
General and my father recognized each his perfidious and
beautiful guest, in the face now disclosed to view. The
features, though a hundred and fifty years had passed since
her funeral, were tinted with the warmth of life. Her eyes
were open; no cadaverous smell exhaled from the coffin. The
two medical men, one officially present, the other on the part
of the promoter of the inquiry, attested the marvelous fact
that there was a faint but appreciable respiration, and a
corresponding action of the heart. The limbs were perfectly
flexible, the flesh elastic; and the leaden coffin floated with
blood, in which to a depth of seven inches, the body lay
immersed.

96
 Here then, were all the admitted signs and proofs of
vampirism. The body, therefore, in accordance with the
ancient practice, was raised, and a sharp stake driven through
the heart of the vampire, who uttered a piercing shriek at the
moment, in all respects such as might escape from a living
person in the last agony. Then the head was struck off, and a
torrent of blood flowed from the severed neck. The body and
head was next placed on a pile of wood, and reduced to
ashes, which were thrown upon the river and borne away, and
that territory has never since been plagued by the visits of a
vampire.
My father has a copy of the report of the Imperial
Commission, with the signatures of all who were present at
these proceedings, attached in verification of the statement. It
is from this official paper that I have summarized my account
of this last shocking scene.
XVI.
Conclusion
I write all this you suppose with composure. But far from
it; I cannot think of it without agitation. Nothing but your
earnest desire so repeatedly expressed, could have induced
me to sit down to a task that has unstrung my nerves for
months to come, and reinduced a shadow of the unspeakable
horror which years after my deliverance continued to make
my days and nights dreadful, and solitude insupportably
terrific.
Let me add a word or two about that quaint Baron
Vordenburg, to whose curious lore we were indebted for the
discovery of the Countess Mircalla’s grave.

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 He had taken up his abode in Gratz, where, living upon a
mere pittance, which was all that remained to him of the once
princely estates of his family, in Upper Styria, he devoted
himself to the minute and laborious investigation of the
marvelously authenticated tradition of Vampirism. He had at
his fingers’ ends all the great and little works upon the
subject.
“Magia Posthuma,” “Phlegon de Mirabilibus,”
“Augustinus de cura pro Mortuis,” “Philosophicae et
Christianae Cogitationes de Vampiris,” by John Christofer
Herenberg; and a thousand others, among which I remember
only a few of those which he lent to my father. He had a
voluminous digest of all the judicial cases, from which he
had extracted a system of principles that appear to govern—
some always, and others occasionally only—the condition of
the vampire. I may mention, in passing, that the deadly pallor
attributed to that sort of revenants, is a mere melodramatic
fiction. They present, in the grave, and when they show
themselves in human society, the appearance of healthy life.
When disclosed to light in their coffins, they exhibit all the
symptoms that are enumerated as those which proved the
vampire-life of the long-dead Countess Karnstein.
How they escape from their graves and return to them for
certain hours every day, without displacing the clay or
leaving any trace of disturbance in the state of the coffin or
the cerements, has always been admitted to be utterly
inexplicable. The amphibious existence of the vampire is
sustained by daily renewed slumber in the grave. Its horrible
lust for living blood supplies the vigor of its waking
existence. The vampire is prone to be fascinated with an
engrossing vehemence, resembling the passion of love, by
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particular persons. In pursuit of these it will exercise
inexhaustible patience and stratagem, for access to a
particular object may be obstructed in a hundred ways. It will
never desist until it has satiated its passion, and drained the
very life of its coveted victim. But it will, in these cases,
husband and protract its murderous enjoyment with the
refinement of an epicure, and heighten it by the gradual
approaches of an artful courtship. In these cases it seems to
yearn for something like sympathy and consent. In ordinary
ones it goes direct to its object, overpowers with violence,
and strangles and exhausts often at a single feast.
The vampire is, apparently, subject, in certain situations, to
special conditions. In the particular instance of which I have
given you a relation, Mircalla seemed to be limited to a name
which, if not her real one, should at least reproduce, without
the omission or addition of a single letter, those, as we say,
anagrammatically, which compose it.
Carmilla did this; so did Millarca.
My father related to the Baron Vordenburg, who remained
with us for two or three weeks after the expulsion of
Carmilla, the story about the Moravian nobleman and the
vampire at Karnstein churchyard, and then he asked the
Baron how he had discovered the exact position of the long-
concealed tomb of the Countess Mircalla? The Baron’s
grotesque features puckered up into a mysterious smile; he
looked down, still smiling on his worn spectacle case and
fumbled with it. Then looking up, he said:
“I have many journals, and other papers, written by that
remarkable man; the most curious among them is one treating
of the visit of which you speak, to Karnstein. The tradition, of
course, discolors and distorts a little. He might have been
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termed a Moravian nobleman, for he had changed his abode
to that territory, and was, beside, a noble. But he was, in
truth, a native of Upper Styria. It is enough to say that in very
early youth he had been a passionate and favored lover of the
beautiful Mircalla, Countess Karnstein. Her early death
plunged him into inconsolable grief. It is the nature of
vampires to increase and multiply, but according to an
ascertained and ghostly law.
“Assume, at starting, a territory perfectly free from that
pest. How does it begin, and how does it multiply itself? I
will tell you. A person, more or less wicked, puts an end to
himself. A suicide, under certain circumstances, becomes a
vampire. That specter visits living people in their slumbers;
they die, and almost invariably, in the grave, develop into
vampires. This happened in the case of the beautiful Mircalla,
who was haunted by one of those demons. My ancestor,
Vordenburg, whose title I still bear, soon discovered this, and
in the course of the studies to which he devoted himself,
learned a great deal more.
“Among other things, he concluded that suspicion of
vampirism would probably fall, sooner or later, upon the
dead Countess, who in life had been his idol. He conceived a
horror, be she what she might, of her remains being profaned
by the outrage of a posthumous execution. He has left a
curious paper to prove that the vampire, on its expulsion from
its amphibious existence, is projected into a far more horrible
life; and he resolved to save his once beloved Mircalla from
this.
“He adopted the stratagem of a journey here, a pretended
removal of her remains, and a real obliteration of her
monument. When age had stolen upon him, and from the vale
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of years, he looked back on the scenes he was leaving, he
considered, in a different spirit, what he had done, and a
horror took possession of him. He made the tracings and
notes which have guided me to the very spot, and drew up a
confession of the deception that he had practiced. If he had
intended any further action in this matter, death prevented
him; and the hand of a remote descendant has, too late for
many, directed the pursuit to the lair of the beast.”
We talked a little more, and among other things he said
was this:
“One sign of the vampire is the power of the hand. The
slender hand of Mircalla closed like a vice of steel on the
General’s wrist when he raised the hatchet to strike. But its
power is not confined to its grasp; it leaves a numbness in the
limb it seizes, which is slowly, if ever, recovered from.”
The following Spring my father took me a tour through
Italy. We remained away for more than a year. It was long
before the terror of recent events subsided; and to this hour
the image of Carmilla returns to memory with ambiguous
alternations—sometimes the playful, languid, beautiful girl;
sometimes the writhing fiend I saw in the ruined church; and
often from a reverie I have started, fancying I heard the light
step of Carmilla at the drawing room door.

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