Carmilla
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 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.
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?”
“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.”
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 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.
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 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.