Best Horror Novels

Chapter 4 Her Habits -- A Saunter

Chapter 4

Her Habits -- A SaunterI 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."

"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.

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.

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 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."

"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.