Carmilla | Page 4

sylvan
horizon, and the stream that flows beside our home, and passes under
the steep old bridge I have mentioned, wound through many a group of
noble trees, almost at our feet, reflecting in its current the fading
crimson of the sky. General Spielsdorf's letter was so extraordinary, so
vehement, and in some places so self-contradictory, that I read it twice
over--the second time aloud to my father--and was still unable to
account for it, except by supposing that grief had unsettled his mind.
It said "I have lost my darling daughter, for as such I loved her. During
the last days of dear Bertha's illness I was not able to write to you.
"Before then I had no idea of her danger. I have lost her, and now learn
all, too late. She died in the peace of innocence, and in the glorious
hope of a blessed futurity. The fiend who betrayed our infatuated
hospitality has done it all. I thought I was receiving into my house

innocence, gaiety, a charming companion for my lost Bertha. Heavens!
what a fool have I been!
"I thank God my child died without a suspicion of the cause of her
sufferings. She is gone without so much as conjecturing the nature of
her illness, and the accursed passion of the agent of all this misery. I
devote my remaining days to tracking and extinguishing a monster. I
am told I may hope to accomplish my righteous and merciful purpose.
At present there is scarcely a gleam of light to guide me. I curse my
conceited incredulity, my despicable affectation of superiority, my
blindness, my obstinacy--all--too late. I cannot write or talk collectedly
now. I am distracted. So soon as I shall have a little recovered, I mean
to devote myself for a time to enquiry, which may possibly lead me as
far as Vienna. Some time in the autumn, two months hence, or earlier if
I live, I will see you--that is, if you permit me; I will then tell you all
that I scarce dare put upon paper now. Farewell. Pray for me, dear
friend."
In these terms ended this strange letter. Though I had never seen Bertha
Rheinfeldt my eyes filled with tears at the sudden intelligence; I was
startled, as well as profoundly disappointed.
The sun had now set, and it was twilight by the time I had returned the
General's letter to my father.
It was a soft clear evening, and we loitered, speculating upon the
possible meanings of the violent and incoherent sentences which I had
just been reading. We had nearly a mile to walk before reaching the
road that passes the schloss in front, and by that time the moon was
shining brilliantly. At the drawbridge we met Madame Perrodon and
Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, who had come out, without their bonnets,
to enjoy the exquisite moonlight.
We heard their voices gabbling in animated dialogue as we approached.
We joined them at the drawbridge, and turned about to admire with
them the beautiful scene.
The glade through which we had just walked lay before us. At our left

the narrow road wound away under clumps of lordly trees, and was lost
to sight amid the thickening forest. At the right the same road crosses
the steep and picturesque bridge, near which stands a ruined tower
which once guarded that pass; and beyond the bridge an abrupt
eminence rises, covered with trees, and showing in the shadows some
grey ivy-clustered rocks.
Over the sward and low grounds a thin film of mist was stealing like
smoke, marking the distances with a transparent veil; and here and
there we could see the river faintly flashing in the moonlight.
No softer, sweeter scene could be imagined. The news I had just heard
made it melancholy; but nothing could disturb its character of profound
serenity, and the enchanted glory and vagueness of the prospect.
My father, who enjoyed the picturesque, and I, stood looking in silence
over the expanse beneath us. The two good governesses, standing a
little way behind us, discoursed upon the scene, and were eloquent
upon the moon.
Madame Perrodon was fat, middle-aged, and romantic, and talked and
sighed poetically. Mademoiselle De Lafontaine--in right of her father
who was a German, assumed to be psychological, metaphysical, and
something of a mystic--now declared that when the moon shone with a
light so intense it was well known that it indicated a special spiritual
activity. The effect of the full moon in such a state of brilliancy was
manifold. It acted on dreams, it acted on lunacy, it acted on nervous
people, it had marvelous physical influences connected with life.
Mademoiselle related that her cousin, who was mate of a merchant ship,
having taken a nap on deck on such a