Saturday, 13 September 2014
by Edgar Allan Poe
(1846)
THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitive with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its re-dresser. It is equally undressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."
"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me --"
"Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.
"Come, let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi--"
"I have no engagement; --come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," he said.
"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls."
He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.
"Nitre?" he asked, at length.
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --"
"Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily --but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."
"I forget your arms."
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
"Nemo me impune lacessit."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --"
"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said, "a sign."
"It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi --"
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said--
"Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He! he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."
"For the love of God, Montresor!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud --
"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again --
"Fortunato!"
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!
Background of the Author:
Edgar Allan Poe (/poʊ/; born Edgar Poe; January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849)
Born in Boston, he was the second child of two actors. His father abandoned the family in 1810, and his mother died the following year. Thus orphaned, the child was taken in by John and Frances Allan, of Richmond, Virginia. Although they never formally adopted him, Poe was with them well into young adulthood. Tension developed later as John Allan and Edgar repeatedly clashed over debts, including those incurred by gambling, and the cost of secondary education for the young man. Poe attended the University of Virginia for one semester but left due to lack of money. Poe quarreled with Allan over the funds for his education and enlisted in the Army in 1827 under an assumed name. It was at this time his publishing career began, albeit humbly, with an anonymous collection of poems, Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), credited only to "a Bostonian". With the death of Frances Allan in 1829, Poe and Allan reached a temporary rapprochement. Later failing as an officer's cadet at West Point and declaring a firm wish to be a poet and writer, Poe parted ways with John Allan.
Poe switched his focus to prose and spent the next several years working for literary journals and periodicals, becoming known for his own style of literary criticism. His work forced him to move among several cities, including Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York City. In Baltimore in 1835, he married Virginia Clemm, his 13-year-old cousin. In January 1845 Poe published his poem, "The Raven", to instant success. His wife died of tuberculosis two years after its publication. For years, he had been planning to produce his own journal, The Penn (later renamed The Stylus), though he died before it could be produced. On October 7, 1849, at age 40, Poe died in Baltimore; the cause of his death is unknown and has been variously attributed to alcohol, brain congestion, cholera, drugs, heart disease, rabies, suicide, tuberculosis, and other agents.
Poe and his works influenced literature in the United States and around the world, as well as in specialized fields, such as cosmology and cryptography. Poe and his work appear throughout popular culture in literature, music, films, and television. A number of his homes are dedicated museums today. The Mystery Writers of America present an annual award known as the Edgar Award for distinguished work in the mystery genre.
Link of the Story
- The narrator begins by telling us that Fortunato has hurt him. Even worse, Fortunato has insulted him. The narrator must get revenge. He meets Fortunato, who is all dressed up in jester clothes for a carnival celebration − and is already very drunk. The narrator mentions he’s found a barrel of a rare brandy called Amontillado. Fortunato expresses eager interest in verifying the wine’s authenticity.
- So he and the narrator go to the underground graveyard, or “catacomb,” of the Montresor family. Apparently, that’s where the narrator keeps his wine. The narrator leads Fortunato deeper and deeper into the catacomb, getting him drunker and drunker along the way. Fortunato keeps coughing, and the narrator constantly suggests that Fortunato is too sick to be down among the damp crypts, and should go back. Fortunato just keeps talking about the Amontillado.
- Eventually, Fortunato walks into a man-sized hole that’s part of the wall of a really nasty crypt. The narrator chains Fortunato to the wall, then begins to close Fortunato in the hole by filling in the opening with bricks. When he has one brick left, he psychologically tortures Fortunato until he begs for mercy – and we finally learn the narrator’s name: Fortunato calls him “Montresor.”
- After Fortunato cries out Montresor’s name, he doesn’t have any more lines. But just before Montresor puts in the last brick, Fortunato jingles his bells. Then Montresor finishes the job and leaves him there to die. At the very end, Montresor tells us that the whole affair happened fifty years ago, and nobody has found out.
Story Elements
A: Settings
1. First part
Italy doesn’t directly factor into this formula of the Gothic Interior, at least not in an obvious way.
2. Latter Part
The carnival season and the Montresor family catacomb are a bit more direct. The carnival is a literal celebration of freedom, which both Montresor and Fortunato are participating in at the beginning of the story.
B: Characters
- Protagonist
- Antagonist
- Supporting Characters
- Victim (protagonist)
Montresor
Character Analysis:
Montresor (if that’s his real name), our narrator, is Mr. Sinister. He’s the guy you don’t want to meet in an underground graveyard, or anywhere else. He’s a cold and ruthless killer. He not only enjoys killing, but also thinks it’s necessary.
As the narrator, he’s telling the story fifty years after it happened. This raises a whole host of complicated questions. We’ll cover the main ones in a moment under “Bragging of Confessing,” but first, let’s look at some other aspects of his character.
Fortunato
Character Analysis:
At first glance, Fortunato seems easier to identify with than Montresor. It’s much simpler to relate to the victim than to the victimizer. But, in some ways, he seems even more foreign to the reader than Montresor. Part of this is because Montresor is telling us the story, and he doesn’t give us much information on his prey.
As you surely noticed, Montresor doesn’t tell us how Fortunato hurt him, nor how he insulted him. So we can’t really say whether Fortunato’s punishment fits his crime.
If we get hung up on trying to figure out if Fortunato deserved to die that way, we might miss out on one of the story’s biggest riddles: just what are Fortunato’s weak points? Montresor gives us his opinion − Fortunato’s a little too conceited about his knowledge of wine − but that’s not his only fatal flaw.
Why would we want to identify Fortunato’s weaknesses? Because, on some level, they probably mirror our own. If we can see ourselves in Fortunato, maybe we can learn something from the story. Luckily for us, Fortunato seems to be weak points personified, so his weaknesses are easy to spot. Here are a few of them, but we bet you can add to the list.
Fortunato is addicted to wine. He’s already really drunk when he meets Montresor, and he thinks the Amontillado can help him take it to the next level. Right up until the end, he thinks of Amontillado, and only Amontillado. Plus, he lets Montresor get him get even more drunk down in the catacomb. His addiction leaves him vulnerable to Montresor’s attack.
Luchesi
Character Analysis:
Luchesi isn’t really a character. He’s more of a plot device. He helps drive the action. Luchesi is Fortunato’s rival in wine tasting. Montresor doesn’t really need to bring up Luchesi to lure Fortunato to his dire fate. The prospect of Amontillado is enough. Luchesi is a kind of insurance for Montresor. He brings Luchesi up whenever he wants to keep Fortunato distracted – like right before he “fetter[s] him to the granite.” But again, Montresor doesn’t really need to evoke the name of Luchesi. Fortunato is not only drunk, but also willing to do anything to get to the Amontillado. Montresor is just playing with him, exploiting Fortunato’s “weak point[s],” with a little help from Luchesi.
The Montresor Family
Character Analysis:
When Fortunato comments on how big the catacombs are, Montresor implies that all the bodies in the place are dead members of the Montresor family. There seem to be quite a lot of them. This is before we know Montresor’s name, but it’s implied that he’s a member of that family.
Is our narrator the last surviving member of the family? If so, what happened to the rest of the Montresors? Did he, perhaps, kill them all? Or maybe Montresor is lying and it’s not just Montresor bones in that massive graveyard. Maybe the Montresors were a family of killers, and the catacomb is full of unsuspecting victims, like Fortunato.
Maybe Montresor isn’t really Montresor at all. Maybe he murdered the last of the Montresors and then stole their name, so he could use it for his nefarious purposes. Montresor, if that’s his real name, makes clear in paragraph five that he is not Italian (though where he comes from is never revealed). So if he’s not Italian, what is his whole family doing buried in an Italian catacomb?
Ultimately, we don’t get any concrete information on the mysterious family Montresor; we have more questions than answers. In fact, Poe invites us to such speculations. They enhance the general creepiness of the reading experience, and make us suspect that Montresor, or whoever he is, is an even bigger villain than we might have thought.
Plot of History
C. Plot Type :
Anticipation Stage
Amontillado!
Fortunato is reveling in the carnival spirit, but it’s not enough. When he hears that Montresor has “a pipe of what passes for Amontillado,” his “energies,” as Booker would say, “have found a focus.”
Conflict of History
D. Conflict:
How to make things right – forever
For Montresor to revenge himself for Fortunato’s insult, he has to get away with it – if Fortunato can revenge him back, then Montresor has lost. The punishment must bepermanent − Fortunato has to feel it, and he has to know it’s coming from Montresor.
E. Climax
Trapped in a conveniently man-sized space!
Montresor brings up Luchesi, Fortunato calls Luchesi an “ignoramus,” and boom! He’s chained inside an upright casket in the foulest depths of the catacomb! That’s the story’s big, explosive moment.
F. Denouement/ Anti- climax
Denouement
The final brick After Montresor puts in the final brick, the suspense is dissolved. He’s heard the pitiful jingle of Fortunato’s bells, and it means nothing to him. As soon as the air is used up in the tiny brick casket, Fortunato will be dead.
G. Finding
A. Tragedy
H. Moral of the story
Do your best not to offend people... and if you do... apologize. You do not know who forgives and forgets... and who plans to seal you alive in a wall. Hence... try to treat everybody fair.
I.Vocabulary build up
Aperture a natural opening in something
Hasten move fast
Mortal a human being
Cask a cylindrical container that holds liquids
Injury any physical damage to the body caused by violence or accident or fracture etc.
Venture proceed somewhere despite the risk of possible danger
Insult a rude expression intended to offend or hurt
Vow make a vow; promise
J.Recommendation
The story contains a plot that is creative and has you wanting to read further into the story. It takes place in a carnival setting, which foreshadows unfortunate events to come. What makes the “Cask of Amontillado” so thrilling is that it is told in first person. We get first hand details and thoughts from the mind of a psychopath. Readers easily get to see the story unfold from the eyes of Montressor.
Although Montressor is thought of as an unreliable narrator, we get the excitement of trying to decipher his unexpected actions. We become familiar with his character and that helps us understand the reasons behind his attempts to lure Fortunato into the catacombs. It also causes us to question the Motif of the story at times, because Montressor does such a good job pretending to care for Fortunado. Fortunato had a number of chances to escape with his life, but was sucked into the brilliant plot that Montressor improvised. This “Cask of Amontillado” would be perfect for anyone that is interesting in reading a story with great amounts of suspense and thrill. This short story could be read multiple times and never get old.
K.Personal Comment
"The Cask of Amontillado" is a chilling story, but Poe also uses humorous elements as the narrator recounts his experience with Fortunato.
