IV. Her Habits—A Saunter

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

I told you I was captivated by her in many ways.

But there were a few things that didn’t sit well with me.

Let me start by describing her. She was taller than most women, slender and incredibly graceful. Despite her languid movements—so languid, in fact—there was nothing in her appearance that suggested she was unwell. Her complexion was rich and radiant, her features small and beautifully shaped. Her large, dark, lustrous eyes drew you in, and her hair was simply extraordinary. I had never seen hair so thick and long cascading down her shoulders. I often ran my hands through it, marveling at its weight. It was incredibly fine and soft, a deep brown with hints of gold. I loved to let it fall freely, watching it tumble as she reclined in her chair, speaking in her sweet, soft voice. I would fold and braid it, spreading it out and playing with it. If only I had known everything then!

I mentioned there were aspects that troubled me. Her confidence had won me over the first night I met her, but I soon realized she held a constant reserve regarding herself, her mother, her past—everything about her life, her plans, and the people around her. I might have been unreasonable, perhaps even wrong. I should have respected the serious warning given to my father by the elegant lady in black velvet. But curiosity is a relentless and unyielding force, and no girl can tolerate having her questions left unanswered by another. What harm would it have done for her to share what I so desperately wanted to know? Did she not trust my good sense or honor? Why wouldn’t she believe me when I solemnly promised not to reveal a single word she shared with me?

There was a coldness in her persistent, melancholic smile that seemed beyond her years, a refusal to shed even the slightest light on her life.

I can’t say we fought over this; she wouldn’t engage in any quarrel. It was undoubtedly unfair of me to press her, quite rude, really, but I couldn’t help myself. I might as well have let it go.

What she did share with me amounted to very little in my eyes.

It boiled down to three vague statements:

First—Her name was Carmilla.

Second—Her family was ancient and noble.

Third—Her home was to the west.

She wouldn’t tell me her family’s name, their coat of arms, the name of their estate, or even the country they lived in.

Don’t think I pestered her constantly about these things. I waited for the right moments and tried to insinuate my questions rather than push them. A couple of times, I confronted her more directly. But no matter my approach, I always met with failure. Complaints and affection fell flat. Yet, I must admit, her evasions were delivered with such a charming melancholy, with passionate declarations of her affection for me and her trust in my honor, along with promises that I would eventually know everything, that I found it hard to stay angry with her for long.

She would wrap her lovely arms around my neck, pull me close, and resting her cheek against mine, whisper softly in my ear, “Dearest, your heart is wounded; don’t think me cruel for obeying the irresistible pull of my own strength and weakness. If your heart aches, mine bleeds alongside yours. In the depths of my overwhelming humiliation, I find life in your warmth, and you shall fade—sweetly fade—into me. I can’t help it; as I draw near to you, you will, in turn, draw closer to others and discover the bittersweet cruelty that is love. So, for now, seek to know no more about me and my world, but trust me with all your loving spirit.”

After such passionate declarations, she would hold me tighter, her lips brushing softly against my cheek in gentle kisses.

Her emotions and words were often confusing to me.

From those foolish embraces, which were not very frequent, I sometimes wished to pull away, but I found myself lacking the strength. Her murmured words felt like a lullaby, soothing my resistance into a trance that only faded when she released me.

In those mysterious moments, I didn’t like her. I felt a strange, tumultuous excitement that was both pleasurable and mixed with a vague sense of fear and disgust. I didn’t have clear thoughts about her during those encounters, but I was aware of a love blossoming into adoration, alongside a sense of repulsion. I know this sounds contradictory, but I can’t explain it any other way.

I’m writing now, after more than ten years, with a shaky hand and a mind swirling with unsettling memories of certain events I went through, even though I can clearly recall the main thread of my story.

I suspect that in everyone’s life, there are emotional moments—those times when our feelings are stirred in the most intense and frightening ways—that we remember only vaguely.

After a long stretch of silence, my strange and captivating companion would take my hand, holding it tightly, her grip warm and reassuring. She would blush softly, gazing into my eyes with a mix of longing and intensity, her breath coming in quick bursts that made her dress rise and fall. It felt like the fervor of a lover, and it both thrilled and unsettled me. With her eyes filled with desire, she would pull me closer, her warm lips brushing against my cheek in soft kisses. “You are mine, you shall be mine, we are one forever,” she would whisper, her voice trembling. Then she would lean back in her chair, covering her eyes with her small hands, leaving me shaken.

“Are we related?” I would ask. “What do you mean by all this? Maybe I remind you of someone you love, but you can’t think that way—I can’t stand it. I don’t know you, and I don’t even recognize myself when you look at me and speak like that.”

She would sigh at my intensity, then turn away and release my hand.

I struggled to make sense of her extraordinary behavior, but I couldn’t dismiss it as mere affectation or trickery. It was clearly a momentary eruption of suppressed instincts and emotions. Was she, despite her mother’s claims to the contrary, experiencing fleeting episodes of madness? Or was there something deeper, a hidden story? I had read about such things in old tales. What if a young lover had snuck into the house, trying to pursue his affection while disguised, aided by a clever old schemer? But there were too many reasons to doubt this theory, no matter how intriguing it was to my ego.

I couldn’t claim to have showered her with the little attentions that men often enjoy giving. Between those passionate moments, there were long stretches of ordinary life, filled with lightheartedness and deep melancholy. During those times, aside from the occasional glimpse of her eyes, filled with a sad fire following me, I might as well have been invisible to her. Except for those brief, intense episodes, she behaved like a typical girl, always carrying an air of languor that seemed at odds with a healthy young man’s energy.

Her habits were peculiar in some ways. Perhaps they wouldn’t seem so strange to a city girl like you, but to us country folk, they were unusual. She would come down very late, usually not until one in the afternoon, and then she would sip a cup of chocolate without eating anything. Afterward, we would go for a walk, which was more of a leisurely stroll, and she would quickly tire, either returning to the house or sitting on one of the benches scattered among the trees. This physical fatigue didn’t seem to affect her mind, which was always lively and sharp.

Sometimes she would briefly mention her home, sharing a story or a memory that hinted at a culture with strange customs, revealing that her homeland was much farther away than I had initially thought.

One afternoon, as we sat beneath the trees, a funeral procession passed by. It was for a lovely young girl I had often seen, the daughter of one of the forest rangers. The poor man walked behind his daughter’s coffin, utterly heartbroken, for she was his only child.

Peasants walked two by two behind him, singing a funeral hymn.

I stood to show my respect as they passed and joined in their sweet singing.

My companion shook me roughly, and I turned, surprised.

“Can’t you see how out of place that is?” she said sharply.

“I think it’s beautiful,” I replied, annoyed by the interruption and uncomfortable that the mourners might notice our exchange.

I tried to sing again, but she interrupted me once more. “You’re hurting my ears,” Carmilla said, almost angrily, covering her ears with her small fingers. “Besides, how can you know that your beliefs are the same as mine? Your rituals offend me, and I despise funerals. What a fuss! Everyone must die—everyone! And they’re all better off for it. Let’s go home.”

“My father went ahead with the clergyman to the churchyard. I thought you knew she was being buried today.”

“She? I don’t care about peasants. I don’t even know who she is,” Carmilla replied, her fine eyes flashing with irritation.

“She’s the poor girl who thought she saw a ghost two weeks ago, and she’s been fading ever since, until yesterday, when she finally passed away.”

“Don’t tell me anything about ghosts. I won’t be able to sleep tonight if you do.”

“I really hope there isn’t a plague or fever coming; all of this looks suspiciously like it,” I continued. “The swineherd’s young wife died just a week ago. She said something grabbed her throat while she lay in bed, nearly choking her. Dad says these horrible delusions can accompany certain fevers. She was perfectly fine the day before. Then she just declined and died within the week.”

“Well, I hope her funeral is over, and her hymn has been sung; I can’t bear to hear that discord and nonsense anymore. It’s made me anxious. Sit down here next to me; hold my hand; squeeze it—harder, harder.”

We had moved a bit further back and found another seat.

She sat down, and I noticed a change in her expression that alarmed and even terrified me for a moment. Her face darkened and turned an awful shade of pale. Her teeth and hands were clenched, and she frowned, compressing her lips as she stared down at the ground, trembling with a shudder that seemed uncontrollable. It felt like all her energy was focused on suppressing a fit, and finally, a low, convulsive cry escaped her. Gradually, the hysteria subsided. “There! That’s what happens when you strangle people with hymns!” she said at last. “Hold me, hold me tight. It’s passing.”

And slowly, it did pass. Perhaps to lighten the heavy mood that had settled over us, she became unusually animated and chatty, and so we made our way home.

This was the first time I had seen her show any clear signs of the frail health her mother had mentioned. It was also the first time I had witnessed anything resembling anger from her.

Both emotions faded like a summer cloud, and I would only see her show a brief flash of temper once more. I’ll tell you how that happened.

We were looking out of one of the long drawing room windows when a familiar figure entered the courtyard over the drawbridge. I recognized him immediately; he usually visited the castle twice a year.

He was a hunchback with sharp, lean features that often accompany deformity. He wore a pointed black beard and was grinning widely, showing his white teeth. Dressed in a mix of buff, black, and scarlet, he was strapped with more belts and pouches than I could count, from which hung all sorts of oddities. He carried a magic lantern and two boxes I recognized—one containing a salamander and the other a mandrake. These strange creatures always made my father laugh. They were made from parts of monkeys, parrots, squirrels, fish, and hedgehogs, all neatly stitched together in a way that was both impressive and unsettling. He had a fiddle, a box of conjuring tools, a pair of foils and masks hanging from his belt, and several other mysterious cases dangling from him, along with a black staff tipped with copper. A scruffy dog followed him, but it stopped short at the drawbridge, beginning to howl mournfully.

Meanwhile, the mountebank stood in the middle of the courtyard, raised his ridiculous hat, and bowed deeply, greeting us in a mix of terrible French and barely better German.

Then, pulling out his fiddle, he began to play a lively tune while singing with a cheerful discord, dancing around in a way that made me laugh despite the dog’s howling.

He approached the window, beaming and bowing, his hat in one hand and his fiddle tucked under his arm. With a breathless fluency, he launched into a long advertisement of his talents, detailing the various arts he could showcase for us and the curiosities he could present at our request.

“Will your ladyships care to buy an amulet against the oupire, which I hear is spreading like wildfire through these woods?” he said, dropping his hat on the ground. “People are dying left and right, but here’s a charm that never fails; just pin it to your pillow, and you can laugh in its face.”

These charms were slips of vellum covered in strange symbols and diagrams.

Carmilla immediately bought one, and so did I.

He looked up at us, and we smiled down at him, amused; at least, I was. His piercing black eyes seemed to catch something in our expressions that piqued his curiosity for a moment.

In an instant, he unrolled a leather case filled with all sorts of odd little steel instruments.

“Look here, my lady,” he said, showing us something as he spoke directly to me. “I happen to practice a rather unusual skill—dentistry, among other things. Curse that dog!” he added, glancing at the howling creature. “Be quiet, you beast! You’re making it impossible for your ladyships to hear a word. Now, your noble friend here, the young lady on your right, has the sharpest tooth—long, thin, and pointed, like an awl or a needle! Ha! With my keen eyesight, I can see it clearly. If it’s causing her any pain, and I suspect it is, I’m here to help. I have my file, my punch, my nippers; I can make that tooth round and blunt, if she wishes. No longer will it be the tooth of a fish, but one befitting a beautiful young lady like herself. What do you say? Am I being too forward? Have I offended her?”

The young lady indeed looked furious as she stepped back from the window.

“How dare that charlatan insult us? Where is your father? I will demand an explanation from him. My father would have had that scoundrel tied to the pump, whipped with a cart whip, and branded like cattle!”

She took a few steps away from the window and sat down. Just as quickly as her anger had flared, it faded, and she gradually regained her composure, seeming to forget the little hunchback and his antics.

That evening, my father was in low spirits. When he came in, he informed us that there had been another case similar to the two recent fatalities. The sister of a young peasant from his estate, just a mile away, was very ill, having been struck down in almost the same manner, and was now slowly but steadily declining.

“All of this,” my father said, “can be attributed to natural causes. These poor people infect each other with their superstitions, and in doing so, they conjure up the terrifying images that have haunted their neighbors.”

“But that very idea is terrifying,” Carmilla interjected.

“How so?” my father asked.

“I’m afraid I might start imagining such things; I think that would be just as bad as reality.”

“We are in God’s hands,” my father reassured her. “Nothing can happen without His permission, and everything will turn out well for those who love Him. He is our faithful Creator; He has made us all and will take care of us.”

“Creator! Nature!” the young lady replied to my gentle father. “And this disease sweeping through the country is natural. Nature. Everything comes from Nature, doesn’t it? All things in heaven, on earth, and under the earth act and live as Nature dictates? I believe so.”

“The doctor said he would come by today,” my father said after a moment of silence. “I want to know what he thinks about this situation and what he suggests we do.”

“Doctors have never done me any good,” Carmilla remarked.

“Then you’ve been ill?” I asked.

“More ill than you’ve ever been,” she replied.

“A long time ago?”

“Yes, a long time. I suffered from this very illness; but I remember little except for the pain and weakness, and they weren’t as bad as what others endure with different diseases.”

“You were very young then?”

“I suppose so. Let’s not talk about it anymore. You wouldn’t want to hurt a friend, would you?”

She gazed languidly into my eyes, wrapped her arm around my waist affectionately, and led me out of the room. My father was busy with some papers near the window.

“Why does your father like to frighten us?” the pretty girl asked with a sigh and a slight shudder.

“He doesn’t, dear Carmilla. That’s the last thing on his mind.”

“Are you afraid, dearest?”

“I would be very much so if I thought there was any real danger of being attacked like those poor people.”

“Are you afraid of dying?”

“Yes, everyone is.”

“But to die as lovers might—to die together, so they can live together.

Girls are like caterpillars while they’re in the world, only to become butterflies when summer arrives; but in the meantime, there are grubs and larvae, don’t you see? Each with their own peculiar traits, needs, and structures. So says Monsieur Buffon in his big book in the next room.”

Later that day, the doctor arrived and spent some time with my father behind closed doors.

He was a skilled man, over sixty, with powdered hair and a face as smooth as a pumpkin. When he and my father emerged from the room together, I heard my father laugh and say as they walked out:

“Well, I do wonder about a wise man like you. What do you think of hippogriffs and dragons?”

The doctor smiled and shook his head in response.

“Nevertheless, life and death are mysterious states, and we know very little about the resources of either.”

And with that, they continued on, and I heard no more. At the time, I didn’t know what the doctor had been discussing, but I think I have an idea now.