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.