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Original Tales.
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THE BLACK CAT.
.
——
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WRITTEN FOR THE UNITED STATES SATURDAY
POST,
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BY EDGAR A. POE.
.
——
For the most wild, yet most homely
narrative
which
I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed
would
I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own
evidence.
Yet, mad am I not — and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I
die,
and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place
before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of
mere household events. In their consequences, these events have
terrified
— have tortured — have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound
them. To me, they have presented little but Horror — to many they will
seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some
intellect
may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place — some
intellect
more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will
perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an
ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the
docility and
humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so
conspicious
[[conspicuous]] as to make me the jest of my companions. I was
especially
fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of
pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as
when
feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew with my
growth, and, in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal
sources
of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful
and
sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature
or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is
something
in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes
directly
to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry
friendship
and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
I married early, and was happy to
find in my wife
a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for
domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most
agreeable
kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey and a
cat.
This latter was a remarkably large
and beautiful
animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In
speaking
of her intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured
with
superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion,
which
regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious
upon this point — and I mention the matter at all for no better reason
than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.
Pluto — this was the cat's name — was
my favorite
pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went
about
the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from
following
me through the streets.
Our friendship lasted, in this
manner, for
several
years, during which my general temperament and character — through the
instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance had — (I blush to confess it)
experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day,
more
moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I
suffered
myself to use intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even
offered
her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change
in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto,
however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from
maltreating
him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or
even
the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way.
But
my disease grew upon me — for what disease is like Alcohol ! — and at
length
even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish
— even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.
One night, returning home, much
intoxicated, from
one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my
presence.
I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight
wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly
possessed
me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take
its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence,
gin-nurtured,
thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a
pen-knife,
opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut
one
of its eyes from the socket ! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen
the
damnable atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning
— when I
had
slept off the fumes of the night's debauch — I experienced a sentiment
half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been
guilty;
but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul
remained
untouched. I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all
memory
of the deed.
In the meantime the cat slowly
recovered. The
socket
of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he
no
longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual,
but,
as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so
much
of my old heart left, as to be, at first, grieved by this evident
dislike
on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling
soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and
irrevocable
overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this
spirit
philosophy takes no account. Phrenology finds no place for it among its
organs. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that
perverseness
is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart — one of the
indivisible
primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character
of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a [column
2:] vile or a silly action, for no other reason than
because
he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in
the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law,
merely
because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I
say,
came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the
soul to
vex itself — to offer violence to its own nature — to do wrong for
the wrong's sake only — that urged me to continue and finally to
consummate
the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in
cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of
a tree; — hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the
bitterest
remorse at my heart; — hung it because I knew that it had loved
me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; —
hung
it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin — a
deadly
sin that would so jeopardise my immortal soul as to place it — if such
a thing were possible — even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of
the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
On the night of the day on which this
cruel deed
was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of
my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great
difficulty
that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the
conflagration.
The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed
up,
and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.
I am above the weakness of seeking to
establish a
sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.
But
I am detailing a chain of facts — and wish not to leave even a possible
link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins.
The
walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a
compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the
house,
and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had
here,
in great measure, resisted the action of the fire — a fact which I
attributed
to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were
collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion
of it with very minute and eager attention. The words "strange!"
"singular!"
and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and
saw,
as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface, the figure
of
a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly
marvellous. There had been a rope about the animal's neck.
When I first beheld this apparition —
for I could
scarcely regard it as less — my wonder and my terror were extreme. But
at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been
hung
in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden
had been immediately filled by the crowd — by some one of whom the
animal
must have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window,
into
my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me
from
sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my
cruelty
into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which,
with
the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then
accomplished
the portraiture as I saw it.
Although I thus readily accounted to
my reason,
if
not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact just detailed,
it did not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For
months
I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this
period,
there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was
not,
remorse. I went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look
about me, among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for
another pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance,
with
which to supply its place.
One night as I sat, half stupified,
in a den of
more
than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object,
reposing
upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which
constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking
steadily
at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me
surprise
was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I
approached
it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat — a very large one
— fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect
but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but
this
cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly
the whole region of the breast.
Upon my touching him, he immediately
arose,
purred
loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice.
This, then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once
offered
to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to it —
knew
nothing of it — had never seen it before.
I continued my caresses, and, when I
prepared to
go home, the animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted
it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When
it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became
immediately
a great favorite with my wife.
For my own part, I soon found a
dislike to it
arising
within me. This was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but — I
know not how or why it was — its evident fondness for myself rather
disgusted
and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance
rose
into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense
of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing
me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or
otherwise
violently ill use it; but gradually — very gradually — I came to look
upon
it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious
presence,
as from the breath of a pestilence.
What added, no doubt, to my hatred of
the beast,
was the discovery, on the morning after I brought it home, that, like
Pluto,
it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance,
however,
only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in
a high degree, that humanity of feeling which had once been my
distinguishing
trait, and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.
With my aversion to this cat,
however, its
partiality
for myself seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a
pertinacity
which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I
sat,
it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me
with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk, it would get between
my
feet and thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp
claws
in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times,
although
I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing,
partly
by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly — let me confess it at once
— by absolute dread of the beast.
This dread was not exactly a dread of
physical
evil
— and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost
ashamed to own — yes, even in this felon's cell, I am almost ashamed to
own — that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had
been heightened by one of the merest chimæras it would be
possible
to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more than once, to the
character
of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which
constituted
the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had
destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had
been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees — degrees nearly
imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject
as fanciful — it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of
outline.
It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name — and
for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself
of the monster had I dared — it was now, I say, the image of a
hideous
— of a ghastly thing — of the GALLOWS ! — oh,
mournful
and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime — of Agony and of Death !
And now was I indeed wretched beyond
the [column
3:] wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a brute beast —
whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed — a brute beast to
work
out for me — for me a man, fashioned in the image of the High
God
— so much of insufferable wo! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I
the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature left me
no
moment alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of
unutterable
fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its
vast weight — an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off
— incumbent eternally upon my heart !
Beneath the pressure of torments such
as these,
the
feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my
sole intimates — the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness
of
my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind;
while,
from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to
which
I now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the
most
usual and the most patient of sufferers.
One day she accompanied me, upon some
household
errand,
into the cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to
inhabit.
The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing me
headlong,
exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in my
wrath,
the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at
the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it
descended
as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded,
by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew my
arm
from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the
spot, without a groan.
This hideous murder accomplished, I
set myself
forthwith,
and with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I
knew
that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night,
without
the risk of being observed by the neighbours. Many projects entered my
mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute
fragments,
and destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for
it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in
the well in the yard — about packing it in a box, as if merchandize,
with
the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the
house.
Finally, I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than
either
of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar — as the monks of
the
middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.
For a purpose such as this the cellar
was
admirably
adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had lately been
plastered
throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere
had
prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a
projection,
caused by a false chimney, or fire-place, that had been filled, or
walled
up, and made to resemble the rest of the cellar. I made no doubt that I
could readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and
wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect any thing
suspicious.
And in this calculation I was not
deceived. By
means
of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully
deposited
the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while,
with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it originally
stood.
Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution,
I prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old, and
with this I very carefully went over the new brick-work. When I had
finished,
I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the
slightest
appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was
picked
up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to
myself
— "Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain."
My next step was to look for the
beast which had
been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly
resolved
to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment,
there
could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty
animal
had been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger, and forebore to
present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to
imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of
the
detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its
appearance
during the night — and thus for one night at least, since its
introduction
into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even
with the burden of murder upon my soul!
The second and the third day passed
and still my
tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a freeman. The monster, in
terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My
happiness
was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some
few
inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a
search
had been instituted — but of course nothing was to be discovered. I
looked
upon my future felicity as secured.
Upon the fourth day of the
assassination, a party
of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded
again
to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the
inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment
whatever.
The officers bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook
or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they
descended
into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as
that
of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end.
I folded my arms upon my bosom and roamed easily to and fro. The police
were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart
was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by
way
of triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my
guiltlessness.
"Gentlemen," I said at last, as the
party
ascended
the steps, "I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all
health,
and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this — this is a
very
well constructed house." [In the rabid desire to say something easily,
I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.] — "I may say an excellently
well constructed house. These walls — are you going, gentlemen? — these
walls are solidly put together;" and here, through the mere phrenzy of
bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon
that
very portion of the brick-work behind which stood the ghastly corpse of
the wife of my bosom.
But may God shield and deliver me
from the fangs
of the Arch-Fiend ! No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk
into
silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! — by a
cry,
at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then
quickly
swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous
and inhuman — a howl — a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of
triumph,
such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats
of the dammed in their agony and of the demons that exult in the
damnation!
Of my own thoughts it is folly to
speak.
Swooning,
I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the
stairs
remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the
next,
a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The
corpse,
already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the
eyes
of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary
eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into
murder,
and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled
the monster up within the tomb! |
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