V. A Wonderful Likeness

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

That evening, the serious, dark-faced son of the picture cleaner arrived from Gratz, driving a horse and cart loaded with two large packing cases filled with paintings. It was a ten-league journey, and whenever a messenger came to the schloss from our little capital, we would gather around him in the hall, eager to hear the latest news.

This arrival stirred quite a commotion in our secluded home. The cases were left in the hall while the messenger was taken care of by the servants until he had finished his supper. Then, armed with a hammer, a chisel, and a screwdriver, he met us in the hall, where we had gathered to watch the unpacking.

Carmilla sat there, looking somewhat detached, as one by one the old portraits, all undergoing restoration, were revealed. Most of these paintings had come to us through my mother, who hailed from an old Hungarian family.

My father held a list in his hand, reading from it as the artist pulled out the corresponding pieces. I couldn’t say if the paintings were particularly good, but they were undeniably old, and some were quite intriguing. For the most part, it felt like I was seeing them for the first time, as the dust and grime of time had nearly obscured them.

“There’s one picture I haven’t seen yet,” my father said. “In one corner at the top, I can just make out the name ‘Marcia Karnstein’ and the date ‘1698.’ I’m curious to see how it has turned out.”

I remembered it; it was a small painting, about a foot and a half high and nearly square, without a frame. But it had been so darkened by age that I could hardly make it out.

The artist now produced it, clearly proud of his work. It was stunning; it seemed almost alive. It was the likeness of Carmilla!

“Carmilla, look! Here’s an absolute miracle. It’s you—living, smiling, ready to speak, in this painting. Isn’t it beautiful, Papa? And look, even the little mole on her throat.”

My father laughed, saying, “It’s certainly a remarkable likeness,” but he quickly looked away, seeming less affected than I expected. He resumed his conversation with the picture cleaner, who was also somewhat of an artist, discussing the portraits and other works that had just been revealed, while I found myself increasingly captivated by the painting.

“Can I hang this picture in my room, Papa?” I asked.

“Of course, dear,” he replied with a smile. “I’m glad you think it resembles you. It must be even prettier than I imagined.”

Carmilla didn’t acknowledge this compliment; she seemed lost in thought. Leaning back in her seat, her beautiful eyes gazed at me with contemplation, a smile of rapture on her lips.

“And now you can read the name in the corner clearly. It’s not Marcia; it looks like it’s done in gold. The name is Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, with a little coronet above it and underneath, A.D. 1698. I’m descended from the Karnsteins; that is, my mother was.”

“Ah!” the lady said languidly, “so am I, I think, from a very long line, very ancient. Are there any Karnsteins still living?”

“I don’t believe so. The family was ruined during some civil wars long ago, but the ruins of the castle are only about three miles away.”

“How interesting!” she said, her voice dreamy. “But look at that beautiful moonlight!” She glanced through the slightly open hall door. “Why don’t we take a little stroll around the courtyard and look down at the road and river?”

“It’s just like the night you came to us,” I said.

She sighed, smiling softly.

Rising, we each wrapped an arm around the other’s waist and walked out onto the pavement.

In silence, we made our way to the drawbridge, where the stunning landscape unfolded before us.

“So, you were thinking about the night I arrived?” she whispered almost shyly.

“Are you glad I came?” I asked.

“Delighted, dear Carmilla,” I replied.

“And you asked for the picture you think looks like me, to hang in your room,” she murmured with a sigh, pulling me closer and resting her lovely head on my shoulder. “How romantic you are, Carmilla,” I said. “Whenever you tell me your story, it will surely be filled with one great romance.”

She kissed me silently.

“I’m sure, Carmilla, you’ve been in love; that there’s, at this very moment, a matter of the heart happening.”

“I’ve never been in love with anyone, and I never shall,” she whispered, “unless it’s with you.”

How beautiful she looked in the moonlight!

With a shy and strange expression, she quickly hid her face against my neck and hair, letting out tumultuous sighs that felt almost like sobs, while her trembling hand pressed against mine.

Her soft cheek pressed against mine, warm and inviting. “Darling, darling,” she whispered, “I live in you; and you would die for me, I love you so.”

I pulled back, startled.

She was looking at me with eyes that seemed empty, devoid of their usual spark, her face pale and expressionless.

“Is there a chill in the air, dear?” she said sleepily. “I feel a shiver; was I dreaming? Let’s go inside. Come; come; let’s go in.”

“You look unwell, Carmilla; a bit faint. You really should have some wine,” I suggested.

“Yes. I will. I feel better now. I’ll be completely fine in a few minutes. Yes, please give me some wine,” Carmilla replied as we approached the door.

“Let’s take one last look outside; it might be the last time I see the moonlight with you.”

“How are you feeling now, dear Carmilla? Are you really better?” I asked, a sense of alarm creeping in. I worried she might have caught the strange illness that was said to be spreading through the area.

“Papa would be devastated,” I added, “if he thought you were even slightly ill without telling us right away. We have a very skilled doctor nearby, the one who was with Papa today.”

“I’m sure he is. I know how kind you all are; but, dear child, I’m perfectly fine again. There’s nothing wrong with me, just a bit of weakness.

People say I’m languid; that I can’t exert myself; that I can barely walk as far as a three-year-old. Sometimes, my little strength gives out, and I become like you just saw me. But I bounce back quickly; in no time, I’m completely myself again. Look how I’ve recovered.”

And indeed, she had. We talked for a long time, and she was lively, her energy restored. The rest of the evening passed without any sign of what I had come to think of as her strange episodes—her unsettling words and looks that made me uneasy.

But that night, something happened that shifted my thoughts entirely, stirring even Carmilla’s usually languid demeanor into a fleeting burst of energy.