Carmilla

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.