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I was anxious on discovering this paper, to reopen the correspondence commenced by Doctor Hesselius, so many years before, with a person so clever and careful as his informant seems to have been. Much to my regret, however, I found that she had died in the interval. She, probably, could have added little to the Narrative. --Sheridan Le Fanu, "Carmilla"
The sun drew delicate fragrances from the flowers as my companion and I wandered arm-in-arm through the garden. The scented air suited my mood; I was perfectly content. It seemed to me that never was a companion more agreeable and more entirely suited to myself, so that even though I had only known her a short time, I loved her with the familiarity of a sister.
"How glad I am," I said, "that you could come after all!"
Bertha turned to me, her pretty lips parting with some little surprise. "Of course I came," she said. She spoke French delightfully, with a hint of a German accent lending a peculiar charm. "Did you doubt me?"
"It's strange," I said. On impulse I reached out and plucked a rose, intending it as a tribute for my friend. "I had thought you somehow prevented."
"Why, nothing in God's world could prevent me! Coming to you was a sacred charge entrusted me by your mama."
I paused, lifting the rose to my face. Its perfume was rich and redolent with life. "But Bertha, how could you? My mother would have needed to send you from—"
From Heaven, I meant to say, but a voice of unsurpassed sweetness completed my thought.
"From the grave."
I turned at the infelicity of the thought, and found myself looking into the rosy, dimpled face of my dear friend Carmilla.
I startled awake, my breath coming painful and harried, a pinprick of pain at my breastbone. For a moment, I thought myself back in the family home, Carmilla sleeping mere yards away, and a mad rush of terror rose in my breast. No, the light streaming from the window was the golden sunlight of Italy, and the monster, Bertha's assassin, my beloved friend Carmilla, had been hunted down in her amphibious, bloody haunt, her lovely head struck from her small soft body. I turned my face towards my pillow, and wept bitterly.
On rising, I went to the case in which certain small items of mine were kept, and from a hidden compartment, I drew a bundle wrapped in paper. As I disturbed the wrappings, a trinket fell onto my lap: the charm against oupires that I had bought from the charlatan, and which Carmilla had implored me to pin to my pillow each night to protect me from fevers. Cruel friend!
My fingers trembled as I unfolded the square of canvas hidden there, and looked on the face within. Such an unutterably sweet face, with its perfection of curve and colour and fine features, the expression so piquant with sweetness, refinement and life.
My father had not questioned the absence of the portrait of the Countess Karnstein from my room when he and the General returned form their dread mission. Doubtless he thought I had destroyed it, unable to look upon the image of the traitor, and out of kindness did not raise the matter. In truth, when I ripped it from its frame, I meant to consign it to the flames, and with it all my delusions about Carmilla. I could not explain even to myself why I had instead secreted it among my possessions, and even now drew it out on occasions to look on Carmilla's visage.
So lovely she seemed, and so innocent! I had loved to hold that very rich brown hair in my hands, had allowed myself to be held against that soft breast and be kissed with those curving lips. I could scarce believe that she was the same monstrous fiend who had been preying on the women of the village, who had killed Bertha and almost killed me.
The sound of a footfall outside my room startled me, and I froze, the painting in my hands. The strange impression came on me that such a light step could belong only to one lady, and that Carmilla herself stood outside my door. A wave of longing passed over me; I lost all thought of the monster who had so nearly encompassed my death and thought only of my one true friend, and how I had missed her companionship.
I was on the verge of opening the door and flinging myself into her waiting arms when memory flooded back, and with it, a thought that froze my blood with terror. The Countess’ lover had hidden her grave in the belief that, once slain, a vampire became something vastly more terrible. If it was truly Carmilla outside the door, then what unthinkable form of horror might be waiting for me there?
I waited a long time, the portrait clutched in my hands, until whomsoever or whatever stood outside my door tired of waiting and I heard footsteps pass away.
Those good ladies, my governesses, had been prevailed upon to accompany my father and myself to Italy, on my father's belief that familiar company would help return me to my former health and spirits. I now sought them out and beseeched them to accompany me on a picnic. Those dear friends were only too willing to indulge me, and we set out with a little basket of rolls and butter.
It was only too soon, however, that the strange langour that had long been plaguing me asserted itself. We had not gone far before, on the pretext of wishing to sit on a mossy log, I suggested we break our journey.
The sunshine and the breeze were pleasant, warming and blowing away the cold heaviness of my nightmare. We three sat and chatted, Mademoiselle de la Fontaine sitting at the feet of Madame Perradon and myself.
A kind of contented drowsiness crept over us all. Through half-closed lashes I noticed Mademoiselle, in an endearingly girlish gesture, rest her head against Madame's knee. With great tenderness, Madame placed her hand on the younger woman's hair, drawing her fingertips through the dark curls, come loose with the exertion of our walk.
The sight recalled strongly to me the way I would stand behind Carmilla and stroke her unbound hair, lifting its silken loops in my hands, smiling to see the way the golden hairs hidden in the brown revealed themselves gleamed in the candlelight. Were my governesses such good friends, then? I had naively believed that a friendship so all encompassing and passionate was peculiar to girls my own age; even more lately, I had put down the peculiar fascination and doting love I had felt for Carmilla to the powers of the vampire.
Now, I questioned my assumptions. Away from their pupil and their employer, did these two respectable ladies hold hands and swear vows of eternal devotions? Did Madame ever hold Mademoiselle in her arms, raining hot kisses on her cheek and throat and speaking wild words of love, while Mademoiselle stood frozen and fascinated, somehow, unable to protest or free herself?
A sudden revulsion of feeling caused me to spring to my feet, and suggest returning home. The good ladies were instantly alarmed, suspecting a return of my weakness, and hurried me inside without further embarrassing demonstrations.
That evening, I overheard my father consult with Madame Perradon in low tones. Although I attempted to close my ears, I caught a few words.
". . . spirits are still low, and her strength… little improvement. . ."
". . . the shock to her system. I pray she will in time. . ."
". . .a doctor?"
"Not yet. . ."
I sat quietly. Their words concurred with a morbid impression I had formed back when Carmilla was a part of the household, that I was fading, that my fate would not be to grow old. The thought now, as then, was not unwelcome. Who would wish to linger in a world in which the dearest of friends could become enemies?
No. The thought came clear and crisp in my mind, in the tones of the phantom of Bertha from my dream. You are young, Laura. You need to live.
I shook myself from my dream, and went to implore my father and friends to distract my thoughts with cards.
As my long sojourn in Italy continued, and afterwards, as I wrote down my sad and strange story, my strength did not fail further. Neither did it recuperate. I put this down to my dreams, which were haunted by Carmilla and Bertha both. My sleep lacked true rest; I often awoke soaked with perspiration and exhausted, as if from a long struggle.
My daytime thoughts, too, were preoccupied, until I could scarcely tell waking from dreams; I was constantly turning, startled, expecting to see either girl by my side. I was prey to an obsession about the fate of a destroyed vampire, and began to seek out wise women and sage peasant men to ask for their knowledge. Did Carmilla still walk the world, hideous and suffering, or had the destruction of her clay set her soul free to depart for Heaven or Hell?
And what of Bertha? Her guardian had told me that the victims marked out especially by vampires most often became vampires myself. Had that doting uncle acted on this knowledge, and had his foster daughter disentombed and desecrated to prevent her waking again? Surely her innocence had protected her from such a fate, but then, surely the girl in my portrait was also innocent, had been innocent until her dark lover had chosen her at her first ball. I could see no evil in her darling eyes.
Most shamefully of all, jealousy blossomed in my heart, both at the thought of Mircalla's vampire lover wooing her and at the thought of Carmilla, in the guise of Millarca, wooing Bertha. Did I envy Bertha, then, her terrible fate? Why else then did the thought of Carmilla pressing kisses on her throat haunt me? Carmilla had sworn to me that she had never loved, unless she loved me, but perhaps she had made the same vow to Bertha Rheinfeldt. I did not like to think of it. If Carmilla had not been hunted to her death, would she have forgotten me so soon, become straightaway enamored of another?
A theory took hold of me, that the mysterious princess, who Carmilla had called Mama, was that first vampire lover, who had made the Countess Karnstein into a monster, keeping her beloved by her side. Had Carmilla intended that to be my fate too, to accompany her and help her gain access to her latest infatuation, or to do the same for me? Was Bertha to be my sister in this? How many had Carmilla loved, and destroyed, and how many had she kept by her side? The thought was unendurable to me.
Perhaps I should have sought the guidance of my father or my confessor, to purge these thoughts from my heart. Yet I held them close and secret, cherishing them with a melancholy, as they became more real to me than my daily existence. Day after day, my heart cried out to Carmilla, even as the thought of her made me tremble with fear. Sometimes, in the darkest night, I wished to myself that rescue had arrived too late for me. Yet, I dreaded Carmilla still, until love and fear twined around each other beyond my skills of unknotting.
Now I have returned to England, and prepared my narrative for Doctor Hessalius. I hope that they will help save some other girl from my fate.
I long have ceased to grieve for myself.
Would things have been different, if we had met in another time? If I had met the girl Mircalla, would she had loved me still? Would I have felt the same tenderness and melting love at her embraces, with none of the revulsion? I like to think that we would have met, and fallen in love, and lived a full long life, growing old together. That it was only an accident of timing that poisoned what we felt for each other.
Or else, what if Bertha had never gone to her own ball? She fell in love with Millarca even as I gave my heart to Carmilla; she was capable of loving a woman. If the vampire had not intervened and she had come to me as planned, would we even now be facing life together?
A vain thought. What was, was. And what will be, will.
I have written something else. I fold it and place it beside my bed.
Before I left Italy, I met an old woman, who told me certain things. Before I sat down, to add this final chapter to my chronicle, I opened wide the window of my room, and called out three times to Carmilla, to Millarca, to Mircalla.
She will come.
Bertha's shade is in the corner, nearly visible to me. At the edge of my hearing I can detect her sobs, her pleas on the behalf of my mother. I am sorry for her. I wish she had not died in vain. Am I not trying to secure the salvation of other innocents? But my plans are formed and my resolve is true.
I will not pin the oupire charm to my pillow. I have no wish for drugged sleep dulling my wits tonight. I know not in what form Carmilla will arrive, dimpled, rosy girl or disgusting revenant. I care not. Either way, I will open my arms to her, I will let her unlace my gown and press her caresses where she will, I will return her kisses and give her the consent she tried to elicit from me, I will love her with my whole heart and, loving her, accepting her for what she is, I will gladly accept my death.
Perhaps God will forgive me. Perhaps I will join my mother, and Bertha, in heaven. Perhaps, even, the soul that fled form the Countess Karnstein when she died the first time is already in heaven, waiting for me. Or perhaps I am doomed to an eternity in Hell.
That fate, I can face. Only one fate is beyond contemplating, that of rising as a monster, to hunt by Carmilla's side and destroy other lives, or to watch her fall in love with other victims. I have taken steps to ensure that will not happen. I trust in my father's wisdom and love to follow the instructions I have left for him, even though it will shock him to the depths of his soul. I have asked him, too, to ensure that Bertha has been treated in the same way. I owe her that much.
The old Italian woman gave me a receipt for a certain draught, of holy water and herbs. I drank deeply of it before I called my friend. Already I can feel it moving through my veins, bringing darkness and fire. When Carmilla pierces my skin with those sharp eye teeth, she will drink the draught along with my blood.
Carmilla told me love was selfish, and cruel, and jealous. I will take her at her word. If I go now to Hell, then as consolation I will take my darling's small hand and drag her down to keep me company.
I close my eyes, and wait. A vision teases at the corner of my vision, a woman dressed as a bride. It is my mother, waiting to receive me, I think at first. As the darkness descends, I realise this shade wears the tender face of Carmilla. Her pretty lips move, mirroring mine, as we mouth the same words:
I love you. Come.