In a Glass Darkly (37 page)

"Your looks won me; I climbed on the bed and put my arms about you, and
I think we both fell asleep. I was aroused by a scream; you were sitting
up screaming. I was frightened, and slipped down upon the ground, and,
it seemed to me, lost consciousness for a moment; and when I came to
myself, I was again in my nursery at home. Your face I have never
forgotten since. I could not be misled by mere resemblance.
You are
the lady whom I saw then."

It was now my turn to relate my corresponding vision, which I did, to
the undisguised wonder of my new acquaintance.

"I don't know which should be most afraid of the other," she said, again
smiling—"If you were less pretty I think I should be very much afraid
of you, but being as you are, and you and I both so young, I feel only
that I have made your acquaintance twelve years ago, and have already a
right to your intimacy; at all events it does seem as if we were
destined, from our earliest childhood, to be friends. I wonder whether
you feel as strangely drawn towards me as I do to you; I have never had
a friend—shall I find one now?" She sighed, and her fine dark eyes
gazed passionately on me.

Now the truth is, I felt rather unaccountably towards the beautiful
stranger. I did feel, as she said, "drawn towards her," but there was
also something of repulsion. In this ambiguous feeling, however, the
sense of attraction immensely prevailed. She interested and won me; she
was so beautiful and so indescribably engaging.

I perceived now something of languor and exhaustion stealing over her,
and hastened to bid her good night.

"The doctor thinks," I added, "that you ought to have a maid to sit up
with you tonight; one of ours is waiting, and you will find her a very
useful and quiet creature."

"How kind of you, but I could not sleep, I never could with an attendant
in the room. I shan't require any assistance—and, shall I confess my
weakness, I am haunted with a terror of robbers. Our house was robbed
once, and two servants murdered, so I always lock my door. It has become
a habit—and you look so kind I know you will forgive me. I see there is
a key in the lock."

She held me close in her pretty arms for a moment and whispered in my
ear, "Good night, darling, it is very hard to part with you, but good
night; tomorrow, but not early, I shall see you again."

She sank back on the pillow with a sigh, and her fine eyes followed me
with a fond and melancholy gaze, and she murmured again "Good night,
dear friend."

Young people like, and even love, on impulse. I was flattered by the
evident, though as yet undeserved, fondness she showed me. I liked the
confidence with which she at once received me. She was determined that
we should be very near friends.

Next day came and we met again. I was delighted with my companion; that
is to say, in many respects.

Her looks lost nothing in daylight—she was certainly the most beautiful
creature I had ever seen, and the unpleasant remembrance of the face
presented in my early dream, had lost the effect of the first unexpected
recognition.

She confessed that she had experienced a similar shock on seeing me, and
precisely the same faint antipathy that had mingled with my admiration
of her. We now laughed together over our momentary horrors.

I told you that I was charmed with her in most particulars.

There were some that did not please me so well.

She was above the middle height of women. I shall begin by describing
her.

She was slender, and wonderfully graceful. Except that her movements
were languid—very languid—indeed, there was nothing in her appearance
to indicate an invalid. Her complexion was rich and brilliant; her
features were small and beautifully formed; her eyes large, dark, and
lustrous; her hair was quite wonderful, I never saw hair so
magnificently thick and long when it was down about her shoulders; I
have often placed my hands under it, and laughed with wonder at its
weight. It was exquisitely fine and soft, and in color a rich very dark
brown, with something of gold. I loved to let it down, tumbling with its
own weight, as, in her room, she lay back in her chair talking in her
sweet low voice, I used to fold and braid it, and spread it out and
play with it. Heavens! If I had but known all!

I said there were particulars which did not please me. I have told you
that her confidence won me the first night I saw her; but I found that
she exercised with respect to herself, her mother, her history,
everything in fact connected with her life, plans, and people, an ever
wakeful reserve. I dare say I was unreasonable, perhaps I was wrong; I
dare say I ought to have respected the solemn injunction laid upon my
father by the stately lady in black velvet. But curiosity is a restless
and unscrupulous passion, and no one girl can endure, with patience,
that hers should be baffled by another. What harm could it do anyone to
tell me what I so ardently desired to know? Had she no trust in my good
sense or honor? Why would she not believe me when I assured her, so
solemnly, that I would not divulge one syllable of what she told me to
any mortal breathing.

There was a coldness, it seemed to me, beyond her years, in her smiling
melancholy persistent refusal to afford me the least ray of light.

I cannot say we quarreled upon this point, for she would not quarrel
upon any. It was, of course, very unfair of me to press her, very
ill-bred, but I really could not help it; and I might just as well have
let it alone.

What she did tell me amounted, in my unconscionable estimation—to
nothing.

It was all summed up in three very vague disclosures:

First—Her name was Carmilla.

Second—Her family was very ancient and noble.

Third—Her home lay in the direction of the west.

She would not tell me the name of her family, nor their armorial
bearings, nor the name of their estate, nor even that of the country
they lived in.

You are not to suppose that I worried her incessantly on these subjects.
I watched opportunity, and rather insinuated than urged my inquiries.
Once or twice, indeed, I did attack her more directly. But no matter
what my tactics, utter failure was invariably the result. Reproaches and
caresses were all lost upon her. But I must add this, that her evasion
was conducted with so pretty a melancholy and deprecation, with so many,
and even passionate declarations of her liking for me, and trust in my
honor, and with so many promises that I should at last know all, that I
could not find it in my heart long to be offended with her.

She used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me to her, and
laying her cheek to mine, murmur with her lips near my ear, "Dearest,
your little heart is wounded; think me not cruel because I obey the
irresistible law of my strength and weakness; if your dear heart is
wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. In the rapture of my enormous
humiliation I live in your warm life, and you shall die—die, sweetly
die—into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in your
turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty,
which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and mine,
but trust me with all your loving spirit."

And when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely
in her trembling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently glow
upon my cheek.

Her agitations and her language were unintelligible to me.

From these foolish embraces, which were not of very frequent occurrence,
I must allow, I used to wish to extricate myself; but my energies seemed
to fail me. Her murmured words sounded like a lullaby in my ear, and
soothed my resistance into a trance, from which I only seemed to recover
myself when she withdrew her arms.

In these mysterious moods I did not like her. I experienced a strange
tumultuous excitement that was pleasurable, ever and anon, mingled with
a vague sense of fear and disgust. I had no distinct thoughts about her
while such scenes lasted, but I was conscious of a love growing into
adoration, and also of abhorrence. This I know is paradox, but I can
make no other attempt to explain the feeling.

I now write, after an interval of more than ten years, with a trembling
hand, with a confused and horrible recollection of certain occurrences
and situations, in the ordeal through which I was unconsciously passing;
though with a vivid and very sharp remembrance of the main current of
my story.

But, I suspect, in all lives there are certain emotional scenes, those
in which our passions have been most wildly and terribly roused, that
are of all others the most vaguely and dimly remembered.

Sometimes after an hour of apathy, my strange and beautiful companion
would take my hand and hold it with a fond pressure, renewed again and
again; blushing softly, gazing in my face with languid and burning eyes,
and breathing so fast that her dress rose and fell with the tumultuous
respiration. It was like the ardor of a lover; it embarrassed me; it was
hateful and yet over-powering; and with gloating eyes she drew me to
her, and her hot lips traveled along my cheek in kisses; and she would
whisper, almost in sobs, "You are mine, you
shall
be mine, you and I
are one for ever." Then she had thrown herself back in her chair, with
her small hands over her eyes, leaving me trembling.

"Are we related," I used to ask; "what can you mean by all this? I
remind you perhaps of someone whom you love; but you must not, I hate
it; I don't know you—I don't know myself when you look so and talk so."

She used to sigh at my vehemence, then turn away and drop my hand.

Respecting these very extraordinary manifestations I strove in vain to
form any satisfactory theory—I could not refer them to affectation or
trick. It was unmistakably the momentary breaking out of suppressed
instinct and emotion. Was she, notwithstanding her mother's volunteered
denial, subject to brief visitations of insanity; or was there here a
disguise and a romance? I had read in old storybooks of such things.
What if a boyish lover had found his way into the house, and sought to
prosecute his suit in masquerade, with the assistance of a clever old
adventuress. But there were many things against this hypothesis, highly
interesting as it was to my vanity.

I could boast of no little attentions such as masculine gallantry
delights to offer. Between these passionate moments there were long
intervals of commonplace, of gaiety, of brooding melancholy, during
which, except that I detected her eyes so full of melancholy fire,
following me, at times I might have been as nothing to her. Except in
these brief periods of mysterious excitement her ways were girlish; and
there was always a languor about her, quite incompatible with a
masculine system in a state of health.

In some respects her habits were odd. Perhaps not so singular in the
opinion of a town lady like you, as they appeared to us rustic people.
She used to come down very late, generally not till one o'clock, she
would then take a cup of chocolate, but eat nothing; we then went out
for a walk, which was a mere saunter, and she seemed, almost
immediately, exhausted, and either returned to the schloss or sat on one
of the benches that were placed, here and there, among the trees. This
was a bodily languor in which her mind did not sympathize. She was
always an animated talker, and very intelligent.

She sometimes alluded for a moment to her own home, or mentioned an
adventure or situation, or an early recollection, which indicated a
people of strange manners, and described customs of which we knew
nothing. I gathered from these chance hints that her native country was
much more remote than I had at first fancied.

As we sat thus one afternoon under the trees a funeral passed us by. It
was that of a pretty young girl, whom I had often seen, the daughter of
one of the rangers of the forest. The poor man was walking behind the
coffin of his darling; she was his only child, and he looked quite
heartbroken.

Peasants walking two-and-two came behind, they were singing a funeral
hymn.

I rose to mark my respect as they passed, and joined in the hymn they
were very sweetly singing.

My companion shook me a little roughly, and I turned surprised.

She said brusquely, "Don't you perceive how discordant that is?"

"I think it very sweet, on the contrary," I answered, vexed at the
interruption, and very uncomfortable, lest the people who composed the
little procession should observe and resent what was passing.

I resumed, therefore, instantly, and was again interrupted. "You pierce
my ears," said Carmilla, almost angrily, and stopping her ears with her
tiny fingers. "Besides, how can you tell that your religion and mine are
the same; your forms wound me, and I hate funerals. What a fuss! Why you
must die—
everyone
must die; and all are happier when they do.
Come home."

"My father has gone on with the clergyman to the churchyard. I thought
you knew she was to be buried today."

"She? I don't trouble my head about peasants. I don't know who she is,"
answered Carmilla, with a flash from her fine eyes.

"She is the poor girl who fancied she saw a ghost a fortnight ago, and
has been dying ever since, till yesterday, when she expired."

"Tell me nothing about ghosts. I shan't sleep tonight if you do."

"I hope there is no plague or fever coming; all this looks very like
it," I continued. "The swineherd's young wife died only a week ago, and
she thought something seized her by the throat as she lay in her bed,
and nearly strangled her. Papa says such horrible fancies do accompany
some forms of fever. She was quite well the day before. She sank
afterwards, and died before a week."