jazlyntb 1

TheCaskofAmontillado

FoRTunaTo had huRT me a thousand times and I had suffered quietly. But then I learned that he
had laughed at my proud name, Montresor, the name of an old and honored family. I promised
myself that I would make him pay for this that I would have revenge. You must not suppose,
however, that I spoke of this to anyone. I would make him pay, yes; but I would act only with the
greatest care. I must not suffer as a result of taking my revenge. A wrong is not made right in
that manner. And also the wrong would not be made right unless Fortunato knew that he was
paying and knew who was forcing him to pay.
I gave Fortunato no cause to doubt me. I continued to smile in his face, and he did not
understand that I was now smiling at the thought of what I planned for him, at the thought of my
revenge.
Fortunato was a strong man, a man to be feared. But he had one great weakness: he liked to
drink good wine, and indeed he drank much of it. So he knew a lot about fine wines, and proudly
believed that he was a trained judge of them. I, too, knew old wines well, and I bought the best I
could find. And wine, I thought, wine would give me my revenge!
It was almost dark, one evening in the spring, when I met Fortunato in the street, alone. He
spoke to me more warmly than was usual, for already he had drunk more wine than was good
for him. I acted pleased to see him, and I shook his hand, as if he had been my closest friend.
Fortunato! How are you? Montresor! Good evening, my friend.
My dear Fortunato! I am indeed glad that I have met you. I was just thinking of you. For I
have been tasting my new wine. I have bought a full cask of a fine wine which they tell me is
Amontillado. But.
Amontillado! Quite impossible.
I know. It does not seem possible. As I could not find you I was just going to talk to Luchresi.
If anyone understands wines it is Luchresi. He will tell me.
Luchresi? He does not know one wine from another! But they say he knows as much
about wines as you know. Ho! Come. Let us go.
Go where?
To your vaults. To taste the wine.
No, my friend, no. I can see that you are not well. And the vaults are cold and wet.
I do not care. Let us go. Im well enough. The cold is nothing. Amontillado! Someone is
playing games with you. And Luchresi! Ha! Luchresi knows nothing about wines, nothing at all.
As he spoke, Fortunato took my arm, and I allowed him to hurry me to my great stone
palace, where my family, the Montresors, had lived for centuries. There was no one at home. I
had told the servants that they must not leave the palace, as I would not return until the
following morning and they must care for the place. This, I knew, was enough to make it certain
that they would all leave as soon as my back was turned.
I took down from their places on the wall two brightly burning lights. I gave one of these to
Fortunato and led him to a wide doorway. There we could see the stone steps going down into
the darkness.
Asking him to be careful as he followed, I went down before him, down under the ground, deep
under the old walls of my palace. We came finally to the bottom of the steps and stood there a
moment together. The earth which formed the floor was cold and hard. We were entering the last
resting place of the dead of the Montresor fam-ily. Here too we kept our finest wines, here in the
cool, dark, still air under the ground.

Fortunatos step was not sure, because of the wine he had been drinking. He looked
uncertainly around him, trying to see through the thick darkness which pushed in around us.
Here our brightly burn-ing lights seemed weak indeed. But our eyes soon became used to the
darkness. We could see the bones of the dead lying in large piles along the walls. The stones of
the walls were wet and cold.
From the long rows of bottles which were lying on the floor, among the bones, I chose one
which contained a very good wine. Since I did not have anything to open the bottle with, I struck
the stone wall with it and broke off the small end. I offered the bottle to Fortunato.
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Here, Fortunato. Drink some of this fine Medoc. It will help to keep us warm. Drink!
Thank you, my friend. I drink to the dead who lie sleeping around us.
And I, Fortunato I drink to your long life.
Ahh! A very fine wine, indeed! But the Amontillado? It is farther on. Come.
We walked on for some time. We were now under the rivers bed, and water fell in drops
upon us from above. Deeper into the ground we went, past still more bones.
Your vaults are many, and large. There seems to be no end to them.
We are a great family, and an old one. It is not far now. But I can see you are trembling
with the cold. Come! Let us go back before it is too late.
It is nothing. Let us go on. But first, another drink of your Medoc!
I took up from among the bones another bottle. It was another wine of a fine quality, a De Grve.
Again I broke off the neck of the bottle. Fortunato took it and drank it all without stopping for a
breath. He laughed, and threw the empty bottle over his shoulder.
We went on, deeper and deeper into the earth. Finally we arrived at a vault in which the air
was so old and heavy that our lights almost died. Against three of the walls there were piles of
bones higher than our heads. From the fourth wall someone had pulled down all the bones, and
they were spread all around us on the ground. In the middle of the wall was an opening into
another vault, if I can call it that a little room about three feet wide, six or seven feet high, and
perhaps four feet deep. It was hardly more than a hole in the wall.
Go on, I said. Go in; the Amontillado is in there.
Fortunato continued to go forward, uncertainly. I followed
him immediately. Soon, of course, he reached the back wall. He
stood there a moment, facing the wall, surprised and wondering.
In that wall were two heavy iron rings. A short chain was hanging
from one of these and a lock from the other. Before Fortunato
could guess what was happening, I closed the lock and chained
him tightly to the wall. I stepped back.
Fortunato, I said. Put your hand against the wall. You must feel how the water runs over it.
Once more I ask you, please, will you not go back? No? If not, then I must leave you. But first I
must do everything I can for you.
ButBut the Amontillado?
Ah, yes, yes indeed; the Amontillado.
As I spoke these words I began to search among the bones. Throwing them to one side I
found the stones which earlier I had taken down from the wall. Quickly I began to build the wall
again, covering the hole where Fortunato stood trembling.
Montresor! What are you doing!?
I continued working. I could hear him pulling at the chain, shak-ing it wildly. Only a few
stones remained to put in their place.
Montresor! Ha-ha. This is a very good joke, indeed. Many times will we laugh about it ha-
ha as we drink our wine together ha-ha.

Of course. As we drink the Amontillado.

But is it not late? Should we not be going back? They will be expecting us. Let us go.
Yes. Let us go.
As I said this I lifted the last stone from the ground. Montresor! For the love of
God!!
Yes. For the love of God!
I heard no answer. Fortunato! I cried. Fortunato. I heard only a soft, low sound, a half-cry
of fear. My heart grew sick; it must have been the cold. I hurried to force the last stone into its
position. And I put the old bones again in a pile against the wall. For half a century now no
human hand has touched them. May he rest in peace!

Summary by cliffnotes considered to be one of the world's most perfect short stories.
Furthermore, it conforms to and illustrates perfectly many of Poe's
"The Cask of Amontillado" has been almost universally referred to literary theories about the nature of the short story: that is, it is
as Poe's most perfect short story; in fact, it has often been short and can be read at one sitting, it is a mood piece with every
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sentence contributing to the total effect, it is a completely unified
work and while it is seemingly simple, it abounds in ironies of
many kinds. Finally, every line and comment contributes to the
totality or unity of effect that Poe sought to achieve.
The plot is quite simple. The first-person narrator, whom we later
discover to be named Montresor, announces immediately that
someone named Fortunato has injured him repeatedly and has
recently insulted him. Montresor can stand no more; he vows
revenge upon Fortunato. The remainder of the story deals with
Montresor's methods of entrapping Fortunato and effecting his
revenge upon the unfortunate Fortunato. Foremost is the fact that
Montresor has never let Fortunato know of his hatred. Accordingly,
one evening during carnival time, a time when much frivolity and
celebration would be taking place, Montresor set his fiendish, mad
plan into motion with full confidence that he would never be
discovered. In fact, at the end of the story, we, the readers, are
certain that his atrocity will never be discovered.
Knowing that Fortunato considered himself a great expert, or
connoisseur, of fine wines, and especially a devotee of a sherry
known as Amontillado, Montresor flattered him by obsequiously
asking his opinion on a newly acquired cask of Amontillado. He
tantalized Fortunato with the rare liquor, even pretending that his
vaults where the wine was stored had too much dampness and
"nitre" for Fortunato's afffiction. However, Fortunato was
determined to taste the wine and insisted on being taken to
Montresor's home. Montresor complied while wrapping himself in a
cloak to make sure that he would not be recognized. Earlier, he
had let all of the servants off for the night, using the excuse of the
carnival; in this way he would avoid arousing Fortunato's
suspicions and would also prevent anyone from witnessing the
atrocity he planned to commit. Apparently, Montresor had been
planning this revenge for a long time and, ironically, had chosen
carnival time as the setting for this most horrible type of crime.
Amid the gaiety of the carnival, he was sure he would avoid any
possibility of being detected.
As they descended into the vaults, Fortunato walked unsteadily
and the "bells upon his cap jingled" as they descended, creating a
further carnival atmosphere or a joyous time, a time which will
ironically end soon with the living death of the unfortunate
Fortunato.
As they passed deeper into the vaults, the nitre caused Fortunato
to cough constantly, but he was drunkenly determined to continue.
At one point, however, Montresor paused and offered Fortunato a
bottle of Medoc wine to help ward off the cold and the fumes of the
nitre. This seemingly kind act, of course, carries undertones of the
most vicious irony, since what appears to be an act of kindness is
only an act performed to keep the victim alive long enough to get
him to the niche where he will be buried alive.
Fortunato drank the Medoc and once again became boisterous
and once more "his bells jingled." Fortunato toasted Montresor's
buried ancestors, and Montresor returned the toast to Fortunato's
"long life." When Fortunato noted how extensive the vaults were,
Montresor told him that he heard that the Montresors "were a great
and numerous family." Then, in his drunkenness, Fortunato says
that he has forgotten what Montresor's coat of arms looks like.
This statement, at the time of the story's setting, would be yet one
more of the many blatant insults for which Montresor hates
Fortunato. He states that his family's coat of arms has on it "a
huge human foot d'or [foot of gold], in a field azure; the foot
crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel"
and that the family motto is "Nemo me impune lacessit" (No one
attacks me with impunity). Thus, both the motto and the coat of
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arms imply that the entire Montresor family history is filled with
acts of revenge.
As the two men proceeded further along the tunnels, the cold and
the nitre fumes increased, and Fortunato asked for another drink.
Montresor gave him a bottle of De Grave, which Fortunato emptied
and then tossed the bottle into the air with a certain symbolic
gesture. At this point, Fortunato was sure that Montresor didn't
understand the gesture because it belonged to the secret order of
the masons an order that Fortunato was certain that Montresor
couldn't belong to, thus flinging Montresor another insult and,
unknowingly, bringing himself closer to his living death. Fortunato
then showed him a sign of the masons a trowel, which he
brought with him. This is, of course, a double irony since the trowel
is not only an instrument used by real masons (bricklayers, stone
masons, etc.), but it is one of the emblems of the Masonic Order,
and in this case it will become an instrument of Fortunato's death
shortly after he implies that Montresor is not good enough to be
a member of the Masonic Order. In only a few minutes, it will be
seen that Montresor is indeed a superb mason.
As they continued their journey, we discover that there are
numerous catacombs of long deceased relatives. Thus, they have
progressed to the place of the dead where Fortunato will spend
the rest of his existence ironically, alongside the relatives of a
man who hates him with an unbelievable intensity. At one of the
catacombs, Montresor led Fortunato into a small crypt, or niche,
which was "in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or
seven. Montresor told Fortunato that the Amontillado was inside.
When Fortunato stepped inside, he ran into the granite wall, and
Montresor quickly locked him to the wall with a chain. Fortunato
was too drunk to even realize what was going on, much less resist
his imprisonment.
Very quickly, Montresor uncovered a "quantity of building stone
and mortar" and began to "wall up the entrance." With only the first
tier completed, Montresor heard deep moans from within, and by
the time he had laid the fourth tier, he "heard the furious vibrations
of the chain." Resuming his chore, he completed three more tiers.
Suddenly there was "a succession of loud and shrill screams" from
inside the crypt and, at first, Montresor was momentarily frightened
and then he delighted in joining in with the screams. Then there
was silence.
By the time Montresor had finished the last tier, with only one more
stone to be put into place, there came a long low laugh from
within. Then Fortunato's voice called upon Montresor to put an end
to this joke. Finally, Fortunato pleaded "For the love of God,
Montresor," a request which Montresor mocked by repeating the
phrase. Then Montresor looked through the remaining opening
with his torch and could see nothing, but he did hear the jingling of
Fortunato's bells as he laid the last stone in place. For fifty years,
he tells us, no one has disturbed the peace of this place.
As noted in this discussion, the story abounds in ironies. The
name of the victim, Fortunato, meaning "the fortunate one," is the
first irony. Then, too, the entire situation is ironic that is, the
most terrible and gruesome deeds are executed in a carnival
atmosphere of gaiety and happiness; Montresor is using the
atmosphere of celebration to disguise the horribly atrocious act of
entombing a man alive.
The reader should, perhaps, at one point ask himself
who is Montresor, and, then since Montresor seems to be
apparently addressing someone, the reader should ask himself
whom Montresor is talking to (or writing about) and why. Since the
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deed was committed some fifty years ago, and at the time of the The double and ironic viewpoint continues on every plane. When
deed Montresor could not have been a young person, he must Montresor met Fortunato, he smiled continually at Fortunato, who
now be very old. It could be that he is talking to one of his thought he saw a smile of warmth and friendliness, when in reality,
descendants, or else making his last confession to a priest. After the smile was a satanic smile in anticipation of Fortunato's
all, from what we can glean from the story, Montresor, in spite of entombment. Likewise, Montresor's first words to him were "you
the reputed insults of Fortunato, came from an ancient, perhaps are luckily met." The ironic reversal is true: Within a short time,
noble family, and he is also a person of considerable taste (in Fortunato will be entombed alive.
gems, in paintings, in wines, and in other matters), and it is evident
that he possesses considerable intelligence, albeit a type of Likewise, when Fortunato drinks a toast to the people buried in the
diabolical intelligence. In his plan to entomb Fortunato in the catacombs, he little knows that he is drinking a toast to his own
Montresor catacombs, he was clever at the right time; his planning impending death. The same is true when Fortunato insults
was perfect. Remember that he anticipated letting the servants off Montresor concerning the masons both a secret, honorable
at a time that would not arouse suspicion since it was carnival order which requires close scrutiny for a person to become a
time; clearly, his entire plan of revenge was contrived with such member and, of course, an honorable trade, a tool of which
perfection that Montresor had to be an exceptionally gifted person. Montresor will use for a most dishonorable deed.
But then, again, the question arises: How could a gifted person
imagine insults of such magnitude so as to cause him to effect
such a horrible revenge? In general, this story fits well into Poe's dictum that everything in a
well-written story must contribute to a total effect. The constant
use of irony the drinking of the wine to warm Fortunato so that
Informing the entire story is the nature of an insult that could evoke he can continue his journey to his death, the jingling of the bells
such a well-planned, diabolical scheme of revenge. If indeed there announcing his death, the carnival atmosphere versus the
was an insult of such magnitude, then is Fortunato unaware of it to atrocities, the irony of Fortunato's name, the irony of the coat of
such an extent that he would accompany the person that he has arms, the irony in the unintentional remarks (or were they?) that
insulted into such a dreadful place? Or was he simply drunk with Fortunato makes, saying that he doesn't remember what the
the carnival madness that was occurring throughout the city? The Montresor coat of arms is, and later when he sneers at the
reader, of course, is shocked by the diabolical efficiency of the possibility that Montresor could be a mason (and the irony
murderer, and also by the fact that Montresor has lived with connected with the type of mason which Montresor actually
impunity, and also, ironically, his victim has rested in peace for fifty becomes) all of these and many more contribute to the
years. complete unity of this perfect short story.

Summary by sparknotes Montresor does not recognize this hand signal, though he claims
that he is a Mason. When Fortunato asks for proof, Montresor
shows him his trowel, the implication being that Montresor is an
The narrator, Montresor, opens the story by stating that he has
actual stonemason. Fortunato says that he must be jesting, and
been irreparably insulted by his acquaintance, Fortunato, and that
the two men continue onward. The men walk into a crypt, where
he seeks revenge. He wants to exact this revenge, however, in a
human bones decorate three of the four walls. The bones from the
measured way, without placing himself at risk. He decides to use
fourth wall have been thrown down on the ground. On the exposed
Fortunatos fondness for wine against him. During the carnival
wall is a small recess, where Montresor tells Fortunato that the
season, Montresor, wearing a mask of black silk, approaches
Amontillado is being stored. Fortunato, now heavily intoxicated,
Fortunato. He tells Fortunato that he has acquired something that
goes to the back of the recess. Montresor then suddenly chains
could pass for Amontillado, a light Spanish sherry. Fortunato
the slow-footed Fortunato to a stone.
(Italian for fortunate) wears the multicolored costume of the
jester, including a cone cap with bells. Montresor tells Fortunato
that if he is too busy, he will ask a man named Luchesi to taste it. Taunting Fortunato with an offer to leave, Montresor begins to wall
Fortunato apparently considers Luchesi a competitor and claims up the entrance to this small crypt, thereby trapping Fortunato
that this man could not tell Amontillado from other types of sherry. inside. Fortunato screams confusedly as Montresor builds the first
Fortunato is anxious to taste the wine and to determine for layer of the wall. The alcohol soon wears off and Fortunato moans,
Montresor whether or not it is truly Amontillado. Fortunato insists terrified and helpless. As the layers continue to rise, though,
that they go to Montresors vaults. Fortunato falls silent. Just as Montresor is about to finish,
Fortunato laughs as if Montresor is playing a joke on him, but
Montresor is not joking. At last, after a final plea, For the love of
Montresor has strategically planned for this meeting by sending his
God, Montresor! Fortunato stops answering Montresor, who then
servants away to the carnival. The two men descend into the
twice calls out his enemys name. After no response, Montresor
damp vaults, which are covered with nitre, or saltpeter, a whitish
claims that his heart feels sick because of the dampness of the
mineral. Apparently aggravated by the nitre, Fortunato begins to
catacombs. He fits the last stone into place and plasters the wall
cough. The narrator keeps offering to bring Fortunato back home,
closed, his actions accompanied only by the jingling of Fortunatos
but Fortunato refuses. Instead, he accepts wine as the antidote to
bells. He finally repositions the bones on the fourth wall. For fifty
his cough. The men continue to explore the deep vaults, which are
years, he writes, no one has disturbed them. He concludes with a
full of the dead bodies of the Montresor family. In response to the
Latin phrase meaning May he rest in peace.
crypts, Fortunato claims to have forgotten Montresors family coat
of arms and motto. Montresor responds that his family shield
portrays a huge human foot dor, in a field azure; the foot crushes Analysis
a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel. The
motto, in Latin, is nemo me impune lacessit, that is, no one
The terror of The Cask of Amontillado, as in many of Poes tales,
attacks me with impunity.
resides in the lack of evidence that accompanies Montresors
claims to Fortunatos thousand injuries and insult. The story
Later in their journey, Fortunato makes a hand movement that is a features revenge and secret murder as a way to avoid using legal
secret sign of the Masons, an exclusive fraternal organization. channels for retribution. Law is nowhere on Montresorsor Poes
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radar screen, and the enduring horror of the story is the fact of
punishment without proof. Montresor uses his subjective
experience of Fortunatos insult to name himself judge, jury, and
executioner in this tale, which also makes him an unreliable
narrator. Montresor confesses this story fifty years after its
occurrence; such a significant passage of time between the events
and the narration of the events makes the narrative all the more
unreliable. Montresors unreliability overrides the rational
consideration of evidence, such as particular occurrences of insult,
that would necessarily precede any guilty sentence in a non-Poe
world. The Cask of Amontillado takes subjective interpretation
the fact that different people interpret the same things differently
to its horrific endpoint.
Poes use of color imagery is central to his questioning of
Montresors motives. His face covered in a black silk mask,
Montresor represents not blind justice but rather its Gothic
opposite: biased revenge. In contrast, Fortunato dons the motley-
colored costume of the court fool, who gets literally and tragically
fooled by Montresors masked motives. The color schemes here
represent the irony of Fortunatos death sentence. Fortunato,
Italian for the fortunate one, faces the realization that even the
carnival season can be murderously serious. Montresor chooses
the setting of the carnival for its abandonment of social order.
While the carnival usually indicates joyful social interaction,
Montresor distorts its merry abandon, turning the carnival on its
head. The repeated allusions to the bones of Montresors family
that line the vaults foreshadow the storys descent into the
underworld. The two mens underground travels are a metaphor
for their trip to hell. Because the carnival, in the land of the living,
does not occur as Montresor wants it to, he takes the carnival
below ground, to the realm of the dead and the satanic.
5
To build suspense in the story, Poe often employs foreshadowing.
For example, when Fortunato says, I shall not die of a cough,
Montresor replies, True, because he knows that Fortunato will in
fact die from dehydration and starvation in the crypt. Montresors
description of his familys coat of arms also foreshadows future
events. The shield features a human foot crushing a tenacious
serpent. In this image, the foot represents Montresor and the
serpent represents Fortunato. Although Fortunato has hurt
Montresor with biting insults, Montresor will ultimately crush him.
The conversation about Masons also foreshadows Fortunatos
demise. Fortunato challenges Montresors claim that he is a
member of the Masonic order, and Montresor replies insidiously
with a visual pun. When he declares that he is a mason by
showing his trowel, he means that he is a literal stonemasonthat
is, that he constructs things out of stones and mortar, namely
Fortunatos grave.
The final moments of conversation between Montresor and
Fortunato heighten the horror and suggest that Fortunato
ultimatelyand ironicallyachieves some type of upper hand over
Montresor. Fortunatos plea, For the love of God, Montresor! has
provoked much critical controversy. Some critics suggest that
Montresor has at last brought Fortunato to the pit of desperation
and despair, indicated by his invocation of a God that has long left
him behind. Other critics, however, argue that Fortunato ultimately
mocks the love of God, thereby employing the same irony that
Montresor has effectively used to lure him to the crypts. These are
Fortunatos final words, and the strange desperation that
Montresor demonstrates in response suggests that he needs
Fortunato more than he wants to admit. Only when he twice
screams Fortunato! loudly, with no response, does Montresor
claim to have a sick heart. The reasons for Fortunatos silence are
unclear, but perhaps his willing refusal to answer Montresor is a
type of strange victory in otherwise dire circumstances.

T h e Te l l - Ta l e H e a r t

iTs TRue! yes, i have been ill, very ill. But why do you say that I have lost control of my mind,
why do you say that I am mad? Can you not see that I have full control of my mind? Is it not clear
that I am not mad? Indeed, the illness only made my mind, my feelings, my senses stronger,
more powerful. My sense of hearing especially became more powerful. I could hear sounds I had
never heard before. I heard sounds from heaven; and I heard sounds from hell!
Listen! Listen, and I will tell
you how it happened. You will see, you will hear how healthy my mind is.
It is impossible to say how the idea first entered my head. There was no reason for what I did. I
did not hate the old man; I even loved him. He had never hurt me. I did not want his money. I
think it was his eye. His eye was like the eye of a vulture, the eye of one of those terrible birds
that watch and wait while an animal dies, and then fall upon the dead body and pull it to pieces
to eat it. When the old man looked at me with his vulture eye a cold feeling went up and down
my back; even my blood became cold. And so, I finally decided I had to kill the old man and close
that eye forever!
So you think that I am mad? A madman cannot plan. But you should have seen me. During
all of that week I was as friendly to the old man as I could be, and warm, and loving.
Every night about twelve oclock I slowly opened his door. And when the door was opened
wide enough I put my hand in, and then my head. In my hand I held a light covered over with a
cloth so that no light showed. And I stood there quietly. Then, carefully, I lifted the cloth, just a
little, so that a single, thin, small light fell across that eye. For seven nights I did this, seven long
nights, every night at midnight. Always the eye was closed, so it was impossible for me to do the
work. For it was not the old man I felt I had to kill; it was the eye, his Evil Eye.
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And every morning I went to his room, and with a warm, friendly voice I asked him how he
had slept. He could not guess that every night, just at twelve, I looked in at him as he slept.
The eighth night I was more than usually careful as I opened the door. The hands of a clock
move more quickly than did my hand. Never before had I felt so strongly my own power; I was
now sure of success.
The old man was lying there not dreaming that I was at his door. Suddenly he moved in his
bed. You may think I became afraid. But no. The darkness in his room was thick and black. I knew
he could not see the opening of the door. I continued to push the door, slowly, softly. I put in my
head. I put in my hand, with the covered light. Suddenly the old man sat straight up in bed and
cried, Whos there??!
I stood quite still. For a whole hour I did not move. Nor did I hear him again lie down in his
bed. He just sat there, listening. Then I heard a sound, a low cry of fear which escaped from the
old man. Now I knew that he was sitting up in his bed, filled with fear; I knew that he knew that I
was there. He did not see me there. He could not hear me there. He felt me there. Now he knew
that Death was standing there.
Slowly, little by little, I lifted the cloth, until a small, small light escaped from under it to fall
upon to fall upon that vulture eye! It was open wide, wide open, and my anger increased as
it looked straight at me. I could not see the old mans face. Only that eye, that
hard blue eye, and the blood in my body became like ice.
Have I not told you that my hearing had become unusually strong? Now I could hear a quick,
low, soft sound, like the sound of a clock heard through a wall. It was the beating of the old
mans heart. I tried to stand quietly. But the sound grew louder. The old mans fear must have
been great indeed. And as the sound grew louder my anger became greater and more painful.
But it was more than anger. In the quiet night, in the dark silence of the bedroom my anger
became fear for the heart was beating so loudly that I was sure some one must hear. The time
had come! I rushed into the room, crying, Die! Die! The old man gave a loud cry of fear as I fell
upon him and held the bedcovers tightly over his head. Still his heart was beating; but I smiled
as I felt that success was near. For many minutes that heart continued to beat; but at last the
beating stopped. The old man was dead. I took away the bedcovers and held my ear over his
heart. There was no sound. Yes. He was dead! Dead as a stone. His eye would trouble me no
more!
So I am mad, you say? You should have seen how careful I was to put the body where no one
could find it. First I cut off the head, then the arms and the legs. I was careful not to let a single
drop of blood fall on the floor. I pulled up three of the boards that formed the floor, and put the
pieces of the body there. Then I put the boards down again, carefully, so carefully that no human
eye could see that they had been moved.
As I finished this work I heard that someone was at the door. It was now four oclock in the
morning, but still dark. I had no fear, however, as I went down to open the door. Three men were
at the door, three officers of the police. One of the neighbors had heard the old mans cry and
had called the police; these three had come to ask questions and to search the house.
I asked the policemen to come in. The cry, I said, was my own, in a dream. The old man, I
said, was away; he had gone to visit a friend in the country. I took them through the whole
house, telling them to search it all, to search well. I led them finally into the old mans bed-room.
As if playing a game with them I asked them to sit down and talk for a while.
My easy, quiet manner made the policemen believe my story. So they sat talking with me in
a friendly way. But although I answered them in the same way, I soon wished that they would go.
My head hurt and there was a strange sound in my ears. I talked more, and faster. The sound
became clearer. And still they sat and talked.
Suddenly I knew that the sound was not in my ears, it was not just inside my head. At that
moment I must have become quite white. I talked still faster and louder. And the sound, too,
became louder. It was a quick, low, soft sound, like the sound of a clock heard through a wall, a
sound I knew well. Louder it became, and louder. Why did the men not go? Louder, louder. I stood
up and walked quickly around the room. I pushed my chair across the floor to make more noise,
to cover that terrible sound. I talked even louder. And still the men sat and talked, and smiled.
Was it possible that they could not hear??
 jazlyntb 7
No! They heard! I was certain of it. They knew! Now it was they who were playing a game
with me. I was suffering more than I could bear, from their smiles, and from that sound. Louder,
louder, louder! Suddenly I could bear it no longer. I pointed at the boards and cried, Yes! Yes, I
killed him. Pull up the boards and you shall see! I killed him. But why does his heart not stop
beating?! Why does it not stop!?

Summary by sparknotes nervous, yet he is unable to comprehend why he should be

thought mad. He articulates his self-defense against madness in
An unnamed narrator opens the story by addressing the reader terms of heightened sensory capacity. Unlike the similarly nervous
and claiming that he is nervous but not mad. He says that he is and hypersensitive Roderick Usher in The Fall of the House of
going to tell a story in which he will defend his sanity yet confess to Usher, who admits that he feels mentally unwell, the narrator of
having killed an old man. His motivation was neither passion nor The Tell-Tale Heart views his hypersensitivity as proof of his
desire for money, but rather a fear of the mans pale blue eye. sanity, not a symptom of madness. This special knowledge
Again, he insists that he is not crazy because his cool and enables the narrator to tell this tale in a precise and complete
measured actions, though criminal, are not those of a madman. manner, and he uses the stylistic tools of narration for the
Every night, he went to the old mans apartment and secretly purposes of his own sanity plea. However, what makes this
observed the man sleeping. In the morning, he would behave as if narrator madand most unlike Poeis that he fails to
everything were normal. After a week of this activity, the narrator comprehend the coupling of narrative form and content. He
decides, somewhat randomly, that the time is right actually to kill masters precise form, but he unwittingly lays out a tale of murder
the old man. that betrays the madness he wants to deny.

When the narrator arrives late on the eighth night, though, the old
man wakes up and cries out. The narrator remains still, stalking
the old man as he sits awake and frightened. The narrator
understands how frightened the old man is, having also
experienced the lonely terrors of the night. Soon, the narrator
hears a dull pounding that he interprets as the old mans terrified
heartbeat. Worried that a neighbor might hear the loud thumping,
he attacks and kills the old man. He then dismembers the body
and hides the pieces below the floorboards in the bedroom. He is
careful not to leave even a drop of blood on the floor. As he
finishes his job, a clock strikes the hour of four. At the same time,
the narrator hears a knock at the street door. The police have
arrived, having been called by a neighbor who heard the old man
shriek. The narrator is careful to be chatty and to appear normal.
He leads the officers all over the house without acting suspiciously.
At the height of his bravado, he even brings them into the old
mans bedroom to sit down and talk at the scene of the crime. The
policemen do not suspect a thing. The narrator is comfortable until
he starts to hear a low thumping sound. He recognizes the low
sound as the heart of the old man, pounding away beneath the
floorboards. He panics, believing that the policemen must also
hear the sound and know his guilt. Driven mad by the idea that
they are mocking his agony with their pleasant chatter, he
confesses to the crime and shrieks at the men to rip up the
floorboards.
Analysis
Poe uses his words economically in the Tell-Tale Heartit is one
of his shortest storiesto provide a study of paranoia and mental
deterioration. Poe strips the story of excess detail as a way to
heighten the murderers obsession with specific and unadorned
entities: the old mans eye, the heartbeat, and his own claim to
sanity. Poes economic style and pointed language thus contribute
to the narrative content, and perhaps this association of form and
content truly exemplifies paranoia. Even Poe himself, like the
beating heart, is complicit in the plot to catch the narrator in his evil
game.
As a study in paranoia, this story illuminates the psychological
contradictions that contribute to a murderous profile. For example,
the narrator admits, in the first sentence, to being dreadfully
Another contradiction central to the story involves the tension
between the narrators capacities for love and hate. Poe explores
here a psychological mysterythat people sometimes harm those
whom they love or need in their lives. Poe examines this paradox
half a century before Sigmund Freud made it a leading concept in
his theories of the mind. Poes narrator loves the old man. He is
not greedy for the old mans wealth, nor vengeful because of any
slight. The narrator thus eliminates motives that might normally
inspire such a violent murder. As he proclaims his own sanity, the
narrator fixates on the old mans vulture-eye. He reduces the old
man to the pale blue of his eye in obsessive fashion. He wants to
separate the man from his Evil Eye so he can spare the man the
burden of guilt that he attributes to the eye itself. The narrator fails
to see that the eye is the I of the old man, an inherent part of his
identity that cannot be isolated as the narrator perversely
imagines.
The murder of the old man illustrates the extent to which the
narrator separates the old mans identity from his physical eye.
The narrator sees the eye as completely separate from the man,
and as a result, he is capable of murdering him while maintaining
that he loves him. The narrators desire to eradicate the mans eye
motivates his murder, but the narrator does not acknowledge that
this act will end the mans life. By dismembering his victim, the
narrator further deprives the old man of his humanity. The narrator
confirms his conception of the old mans eye as separate from the
man by ending the man altogether and turning him into so many
parts. That strategy turns against him when his mind imagines
other parts of the old mans body working against him.
The narrators newly heightened sensitivity to sound ultimately
overcomes him, as he proves unwilling or unable to distinguish
between real and imagined sounds. Because of his warped sense
of reality, he obsesses over the low beats of the mans heart yet
shows little concern about the mans shrieks, which are loud
enough both to attract a neighbors attention and to draw the
police to the scene of the crime. The police do not perform a
traditional, judgmental role in this story. Ironically, they arent
terrifying agents of authority or brutality. Poes interest is less in
external forms of power than in the power that pathologies of the
mind can hold over an individual. The narrators paranoia and guilt
make it inevitable that he will give himself away. The police arrive
on the scene to give him the opportunity to betray himself. The
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more the narrator proclaims his own cool manner, the more he
cannot escape the beating of his own heart, which he mistakes for
the beating of the old mans heart. As he confesses to the crime in
the final sentence, he addresses the policemen as [v]illains,
indicating his inability to distinguish between their real identity and
his own villainy.
Summary by cliffnotes
8
On this particular night, unlike the preceding seven nights, the
narrator's hand slipped on the clasp of the lantern, and the old
man immediately "sprang up in bed, crying out 'Who's there?'"
He can see nothing because the shutters are all closed. Here, as
in most of Poe's stories, the action proper of the story takes place
within a closed surrounding that is, the murder of the old man is
within the confines of his small bedroom with the shutters closed
and in complete darkness.

Even though this is one of Poe's shortest stories, it is nevertheless
a profound and, at times, ambiguous investigation of a man's
paranoia. The story gains its intensity by the manner in which it
portrays how the narrator stalks his victim as though he were a
beast of prey; yet, at the same time, elevated by human
intelligence to a higher level of human endeavor, Poe's "murderer"
is created into a type of grotesque anomaly. In a sense, the
narrator is worse than a beast; only a human being could so
completely terrorize his victim before finally killing it, as, for
example, the narrator deliberately terrorizes the old man before
killing him. And as noted in the introduction to this section, this
story shows the narrator's attempt to rationalize his irrational
behavior.
The story begins with the narrator admitting that he is a "very
dreadfully nervous" type. This type is found throughout all of Poe's
fiction, particularly in the over-wrought, hyper-sensitive Roderick
Usher in "The Fall of the House of Usher." As with Usher, the
narrator here believes that his nervousness has "sharpened my
senses not destroyed not dulled them." Thus, he begins by
stating that he is not mad, yet he will continue his story and will
reveal not only that he is mad, but that he is terribly mad. His
sensitivities allow him to hear and sense things in heaven, hell,
and on earth that other people are not even aware of. His over-
sensitivity becomes in this story the ultimate cause of his
obsession with the old man's eye, which in turn causes him to
murder the old man. Ironically, the narrator offers as proof of his
sanity the calmness with which he can narrate the story.
The story begins boldly and unexpectedly: "I loved the old man,"
the narrator says, adding, "He had never wronged me." Next, he
reveals that he was obsessed with the old man's eye "the eye
of a vulture a pale blue eye, with a film over it." Without any real narrator, with his wild laughter, has indeed lost his rational
motivation, then, other than his psychotic obsession, he decides to faculties. Likewise, the delight he takes in dismembering the old
take the old man's life.
Furthermore, as in works like "The Cask of Amontillado," the
moans of the victim heighten the terror of the story. The old man's
moans were "low stifled sounds that arose from the bottom of the
soul when overcharged with awe." The narrator knew that the old
man felt that he was in the room and, dramatically, when he
opened his lantern to let a small ray of light out, it "fell full upon the
vulture eye." When he saw that "hideous veiled eye," he became
furious. But he warns the reader not to mistake his "over-
acuteness of the senses" for madness because he says that
suddenly there came to his ears "a low, dull, quick sound": It was
the beating of the old man's heart. It is at this point in the story that
we have our first ambiguity based upon the narrator's over-
sensitivity and madness. The question is, obviously, whose heart
does he hear? We all know that in moments of stress and fright
our own heartbeat increases so rapidly that we feel every beat.
Consequently, from the psychological point of view, the narrator
thinks that he is hearing his own increased heartbeat.
As he waits, the heartbeat which he heard excited him to
uncontrollable terror, for the heart seemed to be "beating . . .
louder [and] louder." The narrator was suddenly aware that the old
man's heartbeat was so loud that the neighbors might hear it.
Thus, the time had come. He dragged the old man to the floor,
pulled the mattress over him and slowly the muffled sound of the
heart ceased to beat. The old man was dead "his eye would
trouble me no more."
Again the narrator attempts to show us that because of the wise
precautions he took, no one could consider him to be mad, that he
is, in fact, not mad. First, he dismembered the old man, and
afterward there was not a spot of blood anywhere: "A tub had
caught all ha! ha!" The mere narration here shows how the
man is an act of extreme abnormality.

Even though he knows that we, the readers, might consider him After the dismembering and the cleaning up were finished, the
mad for this decision, yet he plans to prove his sanity by showing narrator carefully removed the planks from the floor in the old
how "wisely" and with what extreme precaution, foresight, and man's room and placed all the parts of the body under the floor. As
dissimulation he executed his deeds. Every night at twelve o'clock, he surveyed his work, the door bell rang at 4 A.M. The police were
he would slowly open the door, "oh so gently," and would quietly there to investigate some shrieks. (To the reader, this is an
and cunningly poke his head very slowly through the door. It would unexpected turn of events, but in such tales, the unexpected
sometimes take him an hour to go that far "would a madman becomes the normal; see the section on "Edgar Allan Poe and
have been so wise as this?" he asks, thus showing, he hopes, how Romanticism.")
thoroughly objective he can be while commenting on the horrible
deed he committed. The narrator admitted the police to the house "with a light heart"
since the old man's heart was no longer beating, and he let the
For seven nights, he opened the door ever so cautiously, then police thoroughly search the entire house. Afterward, he bade the
when he was just inside, he opened his lantern just enough so that police to sit down, and he brought a chair and sat upon "the very
one small ray of light would cast its tiny ray upon "the vulture eye." spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim." The officers
The following morning, he would go into the old man's chamber were so convinced that there was nothing to be discovered in the
and speak to him with cordiality and friendship. apartment that could account for the shrieks that they sat around
chatting idly. Then suddenly a noise began within the narrator's
On the eighth night, he decided it was now the time to commit the ears. He grew agitated and spoke with a heightened voice. The
deed. When he says "I fairly chuckled at the idea," we know that sound increased; it was "a low, dull quick sound." We should note
we are indeed dealing with a highly disturbed personality that the words used here to describe the beating of the heart are
despite the fact that he seems to present his story very coherently. the exact words used only moments earlier to describe the murder
of the old man.
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As the beating increased, the narrator "foamed [and] raved" finished the gruesome act of dismembering a corpse, cannot cope
adjectives commonly used to apply to a mad man. In contrast to with the highly emotional challenge needed when the police are
the turmoil going on in the narrator's mind, the police continued to searching the house. These two factors cause his heart rate to
chat pleasantly. The narrator wonders how it was possible that accelerate to the point that his heartbeat is pounding in his ears so
they did not hear the loud beating which was becoming louder and loudly that he cannot stand the psychological pressure any longer.
louder. He can stand the horror no longer because he knows that Thus he confesses to his horrible deed. The narrator's "tell-tale"
"they were making a mockery of my horror . . . [and] anything was heart causes him to convict himself.
better than this agony!" Thus, as the beating of the heart becomes
intolerable, he screams out to the police: "I admit the deed! tear We have here, then, a narrator who believes that he is not mad
up the planks! here, here! it is the beating of his hideous heart!" because he can logically describe events which seem to prove him
to be mad. The conciseness of the story and its intensity and
Early commentators on the story saw this as merely another tale of economy all contribute to the total impact and the overall unity of
terror or horror in which something supernatural was happening. effect. In the narrator's belief that he is not mad, but that he
To the modern reader, it is less ambiguous; the beating of the actually heard the heart of the old man still beating, Poe has given
heart occurs within the narrator himself. It is established at the us one of the most powerful examples of the capacity of the
beginning of the story that he is over-sensitive that he can hear human mind to deceive itself and then to speculate on the nature
and feel things that others cannot. At the end of the story, if there of its own destruction.
really were a beating heart up under the floor boards, then the
police would have heard it. Clearly, the narrator, who has just