“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.”

“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.”

“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. 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 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. 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.