Bonus Story from Strider Nolan Media

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Poe was a master storyteller with an insightful understanding of the workings of the human mind. In the suspenseful story The Cask of Amontillado, his focus was on the psyche rather than the supernatural.

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO By Edgar Allen Poe

Fortunato had done me a thousand wrongs, but I had borne them as I best could. But when he ventured to insult me publicly, I vowed revenge. However, you—who so well know the nature of my soul—will not imagine that I would be so foolish as to utter any threats. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled. But the very definitiveness with which it would be accomplished must preclude any possible risk to me. I must not only punish him, but punish without fear of further retribution. A wrong cannot be considered avenged when retribution in turn overtakes the avenger.

A wrong also cannot be considered truly avenged when the avenger fails to make his involvement known to the wrongdoer.

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 custom, to smile to his face. He did not perceive that my smile was now at the thought of his destruction.

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 being a connoisseur of wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adapted to suit the time and opportunity—to pretend to have knowledge when they are with British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and sculpture Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack—but in the matter of old wines he was genuine. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought large amounts whenever I could.

One evening during the supreme madness of the Carnival season, it was about dusk when I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore the costume of a jester: a motley-hued, tight-fitting striped outfit, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never finish shaking his hand.

I said to him, “My dear Fortunato, how remarkably well you are looking today! How lucky to run into you. I have received a cask of what is supposed to be Amontillado, but I have my doubts.”

“Really, my dear Montresor?” said he. “Amontillado? A whole cask? Impossible! And in the middle of Carnival!”

“As I said, I have my doubts,” I replied. “And I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. But 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 clearly busy, I am on my way to see Luchesi. If anyone has an aptitude for wine, it is he. He will tell me—”

“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.”

“And yet some fools claim that his taste is a match for your own.”

“Come, let us go.”

“Where?”

“To your vaults.”

“My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I can tell you are on your way to a prior engagement. Luchesi—”

“I have no engagement; come.”

“My friend, no. Perhaps you have no engagement, but I perceive that you are afflicted with a severe cold. My vaults are insufferably damp, and the walls are covered with niter. I would not want to make your cold worse by being exposed to such deplorable conditions.”

“Let us go nevertheless. My cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have urgent need of my services. Luchesi—he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado.”

Thus speaking, Fortunato took me by the arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a cloak closely about my person, I allowed him to hurry me to my own palazzo.

There were no servants at home; they had run off to join in the festivities of Carnival. I had told them that I would be out until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I knew full well, to ensure their immediate disappearance as soon as my back was turned.

I took two torches from their sconces, and giving one to Fortunato, led him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, asking him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the bottom of our descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the Montresor family’s catacombs.

My friend’s gait was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.

“The cask?” said he.

“It is farther on,” said I, “but observe the white substance which gleams on these cavern walls.”

He turned toward me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs teary from deep intoxication.

“Niter?” he asked, at length.

“Niter,” 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 I once 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 Luchesi—”

“Enough,” he said, “the cough is 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 taste of this Medoc will defend us from the dampness.”

Here I opened a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the moldy floor.

“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 rest in peace around us.”

“And I drink to your long life.”


He again took me by the arm, and we proceeded.

“These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.”

“The Montresors,” I replied, “were a great and numerous family.”

“I forget, what is your coat of arms?”

“A huge human foot, in gold, on a blue field. The foot crushes a wild serpent whose fangs are embedded in the heel.”

“And the motto?”

“Nemo me impune lacessit, which means ‘no one attacks me without reprisal.’”

“Good!” he said.

The wine sparkled in his eyes and his bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and barrels intermingling, into the innermost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I boldly seized Fortunato by his arm above the elbow.

“The niter!” I said. “See, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river’s bed, here. Can you see, the drops of moisture trickling down among the bones? Come, we will go back before it is too late. Your cough—”

“It is nothing,” he said. “Let us go on. But first, another taste of the Medoc.”
I opened a bottle of De Grâve and handed it to him. He seemed to empty the entire bottle in one 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 recognize it?” he said.

“No,” I replied.

“Then you are not of the brotherhood.”

“What brotherhood?”

“You are not of the masons.”

“Yes, yes,” I said. “Yes, yes.”

“You? Impossible! A mason?”

“A mason,” I replied.

“Then show me some sign,” he said.

“It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my cloak.

“You’re joking with me,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. “But let us proceed to the Amontillado.”

“So be it,” 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 descended again. We finally arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness and thickness of the air caused our torches to glow rather than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another one, 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 decorated in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been removed and haphazardly placed upon the ground, forming a mound of some considerable size. Through the wall that had been exposed by the displaced bones, we could see yet another interior alcove, about four feet deep, three feet wide, six or seven feet high. It seemed to have been constructed not as another room, but merely a gap between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, backed by one of their surrounding walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, lifting his dull torch, endeavored to see into the depth of the alcove. The feeble light did not enable us to see where it ended.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi——”

“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the wall of the niche, and finding the rock wall in his way, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had chained him to the granite wall. In its surface were two iron staples, about two feet apart from each other horizontally. From one of these dangled 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 much too stunned to resist. Withdrawing the key, I stepped back from the alcove.

“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the niter.
Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first attend to you properly.”

“The Amontillado!” sputtered 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 which I mentioned before. 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 to vigorously wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that Fortunato’s intoxication had in 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 shaking of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which—that I might listen to it with more satisfaction—I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed my work with the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly up to my chest. I again paused, and holding the torch above the fresh mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams suddenly burst from the throat of the chained form, seeming to violently thrust me back. For a brief moment I hesitated—I trembled. Unsheathing my sword, I used it to prod around the recess; but was immediately reassured. I ran my hand along the solid catacomb walls, and felt satisfied.

I returned to the wall. I replied to his screams. I mimicked them—I added my own to them—I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the screamer grew silent.

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 eleventh and last; 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 came from out of the niche a low laugh that made the hairs stand up on my head. It was followed by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said—

“Ha! ha! ha!—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!”

“Yes, over our Amontillado!” I said.

“He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will they not be waiting for 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 waited 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—on account of the dampness of the catacombs, I suppose.

I hastened to complete my labors. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old fortification of bones. For half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. May he rest in peace!

©copyright 2006 Strider Nolan Media

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