POE: The Cask of Amontillado (1846)

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And for the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. How might you measure one's true feeling, or those felt towards him? Consider it is neither by insult nor injury, for both are fairly fleeting in the fashion of passion. However, it is by man's own hand in the predetermination, the post fortification which cements his prejudice upon a monument of malice, a shrine, an effigy, a tomb. It is brick by brick, choice by choice, the conviction is constructed, that the matter or man is sealed for life, and that the final pleas for redress are stifled. Silent. In this story, foul feelings are fermented, disguised and distilled, tainting with the bitter flavor of revenge, the cask of a Montiado. The cask of a Montiado by Edgar Allan Poe, first published in 1846. The thousand injuries of Fort Leonardo, I had born as best I 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 I gave utterance to a threat. At length, I would be avenged. This was a point definitely saddled, but the very definitiveness 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 redressor. It is equally unredressed 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 Fort Leonardo caused it out, my goodwill. My continued as was my want to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his emulation. He had a weak point, this Fort Leonardo. 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 practice imposter upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemery, Fort Leonardo, like his countryman, was a quack, but in the manner of old wines, he was sincere. In this respect, I did not differ from him materially. I was skillful when the Italian vintage is 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, or he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting, party-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 ringing his hand. I said to him, my dear Fort Leonardo, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking today. But I have received a pipe of what passes for a Montiado, and I have my doubts. How? Said he, a Montiado, a pipe, impossible, and in the middle of the carnival? My, have my doubts. I replied, and I was silly enough to pay the full Montiado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain. A Montiado? I have my doubts. A Montiado? And I must satisfy them. A Montiado? As you are engaged. I am on my way to Luckezi. If anyone has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me, Luckezi cannot tell a Montiado from Sherry. And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own. Come, let us go. Wither, to your vaults. My friend, no, I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement, Luckezi. I have no engagement, come. My friend, no, it is not the engagement. And but the severe cold, with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are in sufferably damp. They are encrusted with miter. Let us go, never the last. The cold is merely nothing. A Montiado, you have been imposed upon. As for Luckezi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from a Montiado. Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. And putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a rook-a-lair closely about my person. I suffered to hurry me to the Palazzo. There were no attendants at home. They had absconded to make merry in honor 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 ensure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces to Flombo, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down along an 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 Montresor. The gate of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. The pipe, he said, 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 eyes with two philmy orbs that distilled the room of intoxication. Niter? He asked at length. Niter. I replied, how long have you had that cough? My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. It's 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 was I, 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 Lucaisy, enough, he said, a coughs a mere nothing, it will not kill me, I shall not die of a cough. True, I replied, and indeed I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily, but you should use all proper caution. A draft of this medoc will defend us from the dams. Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle, which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mold. Drink, I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a lear, 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 Montrezoire, I replied, were a great and numerous family. I forget your arms, a huge human foot door, in a field as your, the foot crushes a serpent rampant, whose fangs are embedded in the heel. And the motto, Nemo Mé Impune, le quesit, good, he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes, and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with a medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and punchins into mingling, into the innmost recesses of the catechons. I paused again, and this time I made bold, to seize Fortranato, by an arm above the elbow. The knighter, I said, I see it increases, it hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed, drops of moisture, trickle among the bones, come we will go back. Here it is too late, your cough, it is nothing, he said. Let us go on, but first, another draft of the medoc. I broken reached him a flag of the grove. He emptied it at a breath, his eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed, and through the bottle upwards with a gesticulation, I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise, he repeated the movement, a grotesque one. Do you 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 rocker-layer, a trowel, you gest. He exclaimed, recoiling a few paces, but let us proceed to the emoteado. 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 to search of the emoteado. 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 flambot 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 walls, 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 a special 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 forchinato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavour to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination, the feeble light, did not enable us to see. Perseid, I said, Kirin is the Montiado, as for Luccazi, he is an ignoramus, interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadyly 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 around 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 kniter. Indeed it is very damp. Once more, let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively believe you, but I must first render you all the little attentions in my power. The...a...a...a...manteale. Ejectulated, my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment, true, I replied, the a-manteale. As I said these words, I'd busyed 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 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-moning 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 harken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors 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 flambot over the masonry work through a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screens, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chain form seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment, I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheeting 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 re-approached the wall. I replying to the yells of him who clamored. I re-accode. I aided. I sure passed them in volume and in strength. I did this. And the clamor grew still. It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth year. 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 on my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortinato. The voice said, a very good joke indeed. An excellent jet. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the Palazzo. Over our whine. The Montiado, I said. The Montiado. But is it not getting late? Will they not be awaiting us? I had the Palazzo, the Lady Fortinato, 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 harkened in vain for reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud. Fortinato. No answer. I called again. Fortinato. No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in reply 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 labor. I forced the last stone into its position. I plastered it up. Against the new masonry, I re-arracked the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century, no mortal has disturbed them. In Pache, wreck we eskott. Poe is an audio chuck original. This episode was read to you by Jake Weber. So, what do you think chuck? Do you approve? Everyone's told a lie. But what happens when one lie becomes a life, a movement, a conspiracy. I'm Josh Dean, host of Chameleon, and I uncover true stories of deception scams so intimate and convincing they fooled the people closest to them. These are strangers, they're lovers, friends, and trusted allies. Because the most dangerous cons don't feel like crimes. They feel personal. Listen to Chameleon, wherever you get your podcasts.