The Curse of the Undead - Selected Vampire Books and Legends. Richard Francis Burton

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 the 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.

      CHAPTER 5.

       A WONDERFUL LIKENESS

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      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.

      In silence, slowly we walked down to the drawbridge, where the beautiful landscape opened before us.

      “And so you were thinking of the night I came here?” she almost whispered.

      “Are you glad I came?”

      “Delighted, dear Carmilla,” I answered.

      “And you asked for the picture you think like me, to hang in your room,” she murmured with a sigh, as she drew her arm closer about my waist, and let her pretty head sink upon my shoulder. “How romantic you are, Carmilla,” I said. “Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up chiefly of some one great romance.”

      She kissed me silently.

      “I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on.”

      “I have been in love with no one, and never shall,” she whispered, “unless it should be with you.”

      How beautiful she looked in the moonlight!

      Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to