What was it, I wonder, that drew the Irish to vampires? Bram Stoker is often referred to as the literary father of the vampire tale, but twenty-six years before he published Dracula, Sheridan Le Fanu had already laid the foundations for nearly all vampire-lore, thanks to his short, sharp novella Carmilla.
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Dracula, penned by Bram Stoker in 1897, eclipsed Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu, published in 1872, in popularity for a few key reasons. Stoker’s novel hit the cultural jackpot with its timing and approach. The late Victorian era was ripe with anxiety about sexuality, modernity, and foreign influence—Dracula tapped into all of that with its brooding, invasive Count. He’s a predator who crosses borders, preys on women, and threatens British masculinity, making him a perfect bogeyman for the zeitgeist. Carmilla, while groundbreaking as an earlier vampire tale, is more intimate and subtle, focusing on a female vampire seducing another woman. Its lesbian undertones were bold but niche, and Victorian readers weren’t quite ready to embrace it en masse—it stayed more of a slow-burn curiosity.
Le Fanu was influenced by Ireland’s rich folklore tradition, which included tales of the undead like the Dearg-Due—a mythical blood-drinking creature tied to revenge and seduction. His work often reflected the anxieties of the Anglo-Irish Protestant class he belonged to, caught between fading power and a rising Catholic majority. Vampires, with their parasitic nature, could symbolize both the draining colonial presence of Britain and the internal decay of the Irish aristocracy. Using vampires was also a way to explore themes of forbidden desire, guilt, and mortality—issues that resonated deeply in a repressed, religiously charged society.
Having said that, I enjoyed Carmilla a whole lot more than Dracula (which I really didn’t get on with at all).
Sheridan Le Fanu’s Carmilla is a gothic gem that slides out of the shadows and sinks its teeth into you — gently, seductively, and with just the right amount of chill. Clocking in at novella length, this tale of vampiric longing swaps the caped count for a far more intimate predator: the enigmatic Carmilla, a guest who overstays her welcome in the most haunting way possible.
The story unfolds through the eyes of Laura, a lonely young woman living in a remote Styrian castle with her father. When a carriage accident leaves the mysterious Carmilla in their care, Laura’s thrilled to have a companion to spend several months with — until the dreams start, the languor sets in, and the local peasants start dropping like flies. Le Fanu builds the tension slowly, layering unease with lush, dreamy prose and an atmosphere of sinister, creeping dread.
What’s brilliant here is how Carmilla plays with desire and danger. The bond between Laura and Carmilla crackles with a Sapphic undercurrent—subtle enough for Victorian readers to blush over, but bold enough to make it a queer classic today.
In these mysterious moods I did not like her. I experienced a strange tumultuous excitement that was pleasurable, ever and anon, mingled with a vague sense of fear and disgust…I was conscious of a love growing into adoration, and also of abhorrence.
Carmilla’s not just a monster; she’s a mirror to Laura’s isolation and her vulnerability. Le Fanu, unlike Stoker, doesn’t feel the need to lead the reader, instead he makes great use of quiet looks and silent brooding lulls.
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By modern standards the pacing is slow and the prose slightly stilted and the ending is more convenience than strong plotting. But that’s part of the book’s charm: it’s a product of its time, yet it’s timeless in its mood. The gothic inspired crumbling castle, fog-draped forests, and languid unnamed maladies — are pure catnip for anyone who loves their horror with a side of melancholy.
At under 100 pages, Carmilla is a quick, delicious bite of a read. It’s not reinventing the wheel, but it’s spinning a web that’s still catching readers over a century later. You can read Carmilla on Project Gutenberg here.
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