Chapter XIV: Front Matter (14)

_V._ Yes; for mind, existing unincorporate, is merely God. To
create individual, thinking beings, it was necessary to incarnate
portions of the divine mind. Thus man is individualized. Divested
of corporate investiture, he were God. Now, the particular motion
of the incarnated portions of the unparticled matter is the
thought of man; as the motion of the whole is that of God.

_P._ You say that divested of the body man will be God?

_V._ [_After much hesitation._] I could not have said this; it is
an absurdity.

_P._ [_Referring to my notes._] You _did_ say that “divested of
corporate investiture man were God.”

_V._ And this is true. Man thus divested _would be_ God—would be
unindividualized. But he can never be thus divested—at least
never _will be_—else we must imagine an action of God returning
upon itself—a purposeless and futile action. Man is a creature.
Creatures are thoughts of God. It is the nature of thought to be
irrevocable.

_P._ I do not comprehend. You say that man will never put off the
body?

_V._ I say that he will never be bodiless.

_P._ Explain.

_V._ There are two bodies—the rudimental and the complete;
corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the
butterfly. What we call “death,” is but the painful
metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive,
preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate,
immortal. The ultimate life is the full design.

_P._ But of the worm’s metamorphosis we are palpably cognizant.

_V._ _We_, certainly—but not the worm. The matter of which our
rudimental body is composed, is within the ken of the organs of
that body; or, more distinctly, our rudimental organs are adapted
to the matter of which is formed the rudimental body; but not to
that of which the ultimate is composed. The ultimate body thus
escapes our rudimental senses, and we perceive only the shell
which falls, in decaying, from the inner form; not that inner
form itself; but this inner form, as well as the shell, is
appreciable by those who have already acquired the ultimate life.

_P._ You have often said that the mesmeric state very nearly
resembles death. How is this?

_V._ When I say that it resembles death, I mean that it resembles
the ultimate life; for when I am entranced the senses of my
rudimental life are in abeyance, and I perceive external things
directly, without organs, through a medium which I shall employ
in the ultimate, unorganized life.

_P._ Unorganized?

_V._ Yes; organs are contrivances by which the individual is
brought into sensible relation with particular classes and forms
of matter, to the exclusion of other classes and forms. The
organs of man are adapted to his rudimental condition, and to
that only; his ultimate condition, being unorganized, is of
unlimited comprehension in all points but one—the nature of the
volition of God—that is to say, the motion of the unparticled
matter. You will have a distinct idea of the ultimate body by
conceiving it to be entire brain. This it is _not_; but a
conception of this nature will bring you near a comprehension of
what it _is_. A luminous body imparts vibration to the
luminiferous ether. The vibrations generate similar ones within
the retina; these again communicate similar ones to the optic
nerve. The nerve conveys similar ones to the brain; the brain,
also, similar ones to the unparticled matter which permeates it.
The motion of this latter is thought, of which perception is the
first undulation. This is the mode by which the mind of the
rudimental life communicates with the external world; and this
external world is, to the rudimental life, limited, through the
idiosyncrasy of its organs. But in the ultimate, unorganized
life, the external world reaches the whole body, (which is of a
substance having affinity to brain, as I have said,) with no
other intervention than that of an infinitely rarer ether than
even the luminiferous; and to this ether—in unison with it—the
whole body vibrates, setting in motion the unparticled matter
which permeates it. It is to the absence of idiosyncratic organs,
therefore, that we must attribute the nearly unlimited perception
of the ultimate life. To rudimental beings, organs are the cages
necessary to confine them until fledged.

_P._ You speak of rudimental “beings.” Are there other rudimental
thinking beings than man?

_V._ The multitudinous conglomeration of rare matter into nebulæ,
planets, suns, and other bodies which are neither nebulæ, suns,
nor planets, is for the sole purpose of supplying _pabulum_ for
the idiosyncrasy of the organs of an infinity of rudimental
beings. But for the necessity of the rudimental, prior to the
ultimate life, there would have been no bodies such as these.
Each of these is tenanted by a distinct variety of organic,
rudimental, thinking creatures. In all, the organs vary with the
features of the place tenanted. At death, or metamorphosis, these
creatures, enjoying the ultimate life—immortality—and cognizant
of all secrets but _the one_, act all things and pass everywhere
by mere volition:—indwelling, not the stars, which to us seem the
sole palpabilities, and for the accommodation of which we blindly
deem space created—but that SPACE itself—that infinity of which
the truly substantive vastness swallows up the
star-shadows—blotting them out as non-entities from the
perception of the angels.

_P._ You say that “but for the _necessity_ of the rudimental
life” there would have been no stars. But why this necessity?

_V._ In the inorganic life, as well as in the inorganic matter
generally, there is nothing to impede the action of one simple
_unique_ law—the Divine Volition. With the view of producing
impediment, the organic life and matter, (complex, substantial,
and law-encumbered,) were contrived.

_P._ But again—why need this impediment have been produced?

_V._ The result of law inviolate is perfection—right—negative
happiness. The result of law violate is imperfection, wrong,
positive pain. Through the impediments afforded by the number,
complexity, and substantiality of the laws of organic life and
matter, the violation of law is rendered, to a certain extent,
practicable. Thus pain, which in the inorganic life is
impossible, is possible in the organic.

_P._ But to what good end is pain thus rendered possible?

_V._ All things are either good or bad by comparison. A
sufficient analysis will show that pleasure, in all cases, is but
the contrast of pain. _Positive_ pleasure is a mere idea. To be
happy at any one point we must have suffered at the same. Never
to suffer would have been never to have been blessed. But it has
been shown that, in the inorganic life, pain cannot be thus the
necessity for the organic. The pain of the primitive life of
Earth, is the sole basis of the bliss of the ultimate life in
Heaven.

_P._ Still, there is one of your expressions which I find it
impossible to comprehend—“the truly _substantive_ vastness of
infinity.”

_V._ This, probably, is because you have no sufficiently generic
conception of the term “_substance_” itself. We must not regard
it as a quality, but as a sentiment:—it is the perception, in
thinking beings, of the adaptation of matter to their
organization. There are many things on the Earth, which would be
nihility to the inhabitants of Venus—many things visible and
tangible in Venus, which we could not be brought to appreciate as
existing at all. But to the inorganic beings—to the angels—the
whole of the unparticled matter is substance—that is to say, the
whole of what we term “space” is to them the truest
substantiality;—the stars, meantime, through what we consider
their materiality, escaping the angelic sense, just in proportion
as the unparticled matter, through what we consider its
immateriality, eludes the organic.

As the sleep-waker pronounced these latter words, in a feeble
tone, I observed on his countenance a singular expression, which
somewhat alarmed me, and induced me to awake him at once. No
sooner had I done this, than, with a bright smile irradiating all
his features, he fell back upon his pillow and expired. I noticed
that in less than a minute afterward his corpse had all the stern
rigidity of stone. His brow was of the coldness of ice. Thus,
ordinarily, should it have appeared, only after long pressure
from Azrael’s hand. Had the sleep-waker, indeed, during the
latter portion of his discourse, been addressing me from out the
region of the shadows?

THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR

Of course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for
wonder, that the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited
discussion. It would have been a miracle had it not—especially
under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties
concerned, to keep the affair from the public, at least for the
present, or until we had farther opportunities for
investigation—through our endeavors to effect this—a garbled or
exaggerated account made its way into society, and became the
source of many unpleasant misrepresentations; and, very
naturally, of a great deal of disbelief.

It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts—as far as I
comprehend them myself. They are, succinctly, these:

My attention, for the last three years, had been repeatedly drawn
to the subject of Mesmerism; and, about nine months ago it
occurred to me, quite suddenly, that in the series of experiments
made hitherto, there had been a very remarkable and most
unaccountable omission:—no person had as yet been mesmerized in
articulo mortis. It remained to be seen, first, whether, in such
condition, there existed in the patient any susceptibility to the
magnetic influence; secondly, whether, if any existed, it was
impaired or increased by the condition; thirdly, to what extent,
or for how long a period, the encroachments of Death might be
arrested by the process. There were other points to be
ascertained, but these most excited my curiosity—the last in
especial, from the immensely important character of its
consequences.

In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test
these particulars, I was brought to think of my friend, M. Ernest
Valdemar, the well-known compiler of the “Bibliotheca Forensica,”
and author (under the nom de plume of Issachar Marx) of the
Polish versions of “Wallenstein” and “Gargantua.” M. Valdemar,
who has resided principally at Harlem, N.Y., since the year 1839,
is (or was) particularly noticeable for the extreme spareness of
his person—his lower limbs much resembling those of John
Randolph; and, also, for the whiteness of his whiskers, in
violent contrast to the blackness of his hair—the latter, in
consequence, being very generally mistaken for a wig. His
temperament was markedly nervous, and rendered him a good subject
for mesmeric experiment. On two or three occasions I had put him
to sleep with little difficulty, but was disappointed in other
results which his peculiar constitution had naturally led me to
anticipate. His will was at no period positively, or thoroughly,
under my control, and in regard to clairvoyance, I could
accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always
attributed my failure at these points to the disordered state of
his health. For some months previous to my becoming acquainted
with him, his physicians had declared him in a confirmed
phthisis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak calmly of his
approaching dissolution, as of a matter neither to be avoided nor
regretted.

When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me, it
was of course very natural that I should think of M. Valdemar. I
knew the steady philosophy of the man too well to apprehend any
scruples from him; and he had no relatives in America who would
be likely to interfere. I spoke to him frankly upon the subject;
and, to my surprise, his interest seemed vividly excited. I say
to my surprise, for, although he had always yielded his person
freely to my experiments, he had never before given me any tokens
of sympathy with what I did. His disease was of that character
which would admit of exact calculation in respect to the epoch of
its termination in death; and it was finally arranged between us
that he would send for me about twenty-four hours before the
period announced by his physicians as that of his decease.

It is now rather more than seven months since I received, from M.
Valdemar himself, the subjoined note:

MY DEAR P——,

You may as well come now. D—— and F—— are agreed that I cannot
hold out beyond to-morrow midnight; and I think they have hit the
time very nearly.

VALDEMAR

I received this note within half an hour after it was written,
and in fifteen minutes more I was in the dying man’s chamber. I
had not seen him for ten days, and was appalled by the fearful
alteration which the brief interval had wrought in him. His face
wore a leaden hue; the eyes were utterly lustreless; and the
emaciation was so extreme that the skin had been broken through
by the cheek-bones. His expectoration was excessive. The pulse
was barely perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very
remarkable manner, both his mental power and a certain degree of
physical strength. He spoke with distinctness—took some
palliative medicines without aid—and, when I entered the room,
was occupied in penciling memoranda in a pocket-book. He was
propped up in the bed by pillows. Doctors D—— and F—— were in
attendance.

After pressing Valdemar’s hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and
obtained from them a minute account of the patient’s condition.
The left lung had been for eighteen months in a semi-osseous or
cartilaginous state, and was, of course, entirely useless for all
purposes of vitality. The right, in its upper portion, was also
partially, if not thoroughly, ossified, while the lower region
was merely a mass of purulent tubercles, running one into
another. Several extensive perforations existed; and, at one
point, permanent adhesion to the ribs had taken place. These
appearances in the right lobe were of comparatively recent date.
The ossification had proceeded with very unusual rapidity; no
sign of it had been discovered a month before, and the adhesion
had only been observed during the three previous days.
Independently of the phthisis, the patient was suspected of
aneurism of the aorta; but on this point the osseous symptoms
rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the opinion of
both physicians that M. Valdemar would die about midnight on the
morrow (Sunday). It was then seven o’clock on Saturday evening.

On quitting the invalid’s bed-side to hold conversation with
myself, Doctors D—— and F—— had bidden him a final farewell. It
had not been their intention to return; but, at my request, they
agreed to look in upon the patient about ten the next night.

When they had gone, I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on the
subject of his approaching dissolution, as well as, more
particularly, of the experiment proposed. He still professed
himself quite willing and even anxious to have it made, and urged
me to commence it at once. A male and a female nurse were in
attendance; but I did not feel myself altogether at liberty to
engage in a task of this character with no more reliable
witnesses than these people, in case of sudden accident, might
prove. I therefore postponed operations until about eight the
next night, when the arrival of a medical student with whom I had
some acquaintance, (Mr. Theodore L—l,) relieved me from farther
embarrassment. It had been my design, originally, to wait for the
physicians; but I was induced to proceed, first, by the urgent
entreaties of M. Valdemar, and secondly, by my conviction that I
had not a moment to lose, as he was evidently sinking fast.

Mr. L—l was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take
notes of all that occurred, and it is from his memoranda that
what I now have to relate is, for the most part, either condensed
or copied verbatim.

It wanted about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient’s
hand, I begged him to state, as distinctly as he could, to Mr.
L—l, whether he (M. Valdemar) was entirely willing that I should
make the experiment of mesmerizing him in his then condition.

He replied feebly, yet quite audibly, “Yes, I wish to be. I fear
you have mesmerized”—adding immediately afterwards: “I fear you
have deferred it too long.”

While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already
found most effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced
with the first lateral stroke of my hand across his forehead; but
although I exerted all my powers, no further perceptible effect
was induced until some minutes after ten o’clock, when Doctors
D—— and F—— called, according to appointment. I explained to
them, in a few words, what I designed, and as they opposed no
objection, saying that the patient was already in the death
agony, I proceeded without hesitation—exchanging, however, the
lateral passes for downward ones, and directing my gaze entirely
into the right eye of the sufferer.

By this time his pulse was imperceptible and his breathing was
stertorous, and at intervals of half a minute.

This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At
the expiration of this period, however, a natural although a very
deep sigh escaped the bosom of the dying man, and the stertorous
breathing ceased—that is to say, its stertorousness was no longer
apparent; the intervals were undiminished. The patient’s
extremities were of an icy coldness.

At five minutes before eleven I perceived unequivocal signs of
the mesmeric influence. The glassy roll of the eye was changed
for that expression of uneasy inward examination which is never
seen except in cases of sleep-waking, and which it is quite
impossible to mistake. With a few rapid lateral passes I made the
lids quiver, as in incipient sleep, and with a few more I closed
them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this, but
continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest
exertion of the will, until I had completely stiffened the limbs
of the slumberer, after placing them in a seemingly easy
position. The legs were at full length; the arms were nearly so,
and reposed on the bed at a moderate distance from the loin. The
head was very slightly elevated.

When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I
requested the gentlemen present to examine M. Valdemar’s
condition. After a few experiments, they admitted him to be an
unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both
the physicians was greatly excited. Dr. D—— resolved at once to
remain with the patient all night, while Dr. F—— took leave with
a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L—l and the nurses remained.

We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three
o’clock in the morning, when I approached him and found him in
precisely the same condition as when Dr. F—— went away—that is to
say, he lay in the same position; the pulse was imperceptible;
the breathing was gentle (scarcely noticeable, unless through the
application of a mirror to the lips); the eyes were closed
naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as cold as marble.
Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of death.

As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to
influence his right arm into pursuit of my own, as I passed the
latter gently to and fro above his person. In such experiments
with this patient, I had never perfectly succeeded before, and
assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now; but to my
astonishment, his arm very readily, although feebly, followed
every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a
few words of conversation.

“M. Valdemar,” I said, “are you asleep?” He made no answer, but I
perceived a tremor about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat
the question, again and again. At its third repetition, his whole
frame was agitated by a very slight shivering; the eyelids
unclosed themselves so far as to display a white line of the
ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and from between them, in a
barely audible whisper, issued the words:

“Yes;—asleep now. Do not wake me!—let me die so!”

I here felt the limbs and found them as rigid as ever. The right
arm, as before, obeyed the direction of my hand. I questioned the
sleep-waker again:

“Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar?”

The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before:

“No pain—I am dying.”

I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then,
and nothing more was said or done until the arrival of Dr. F——,
who came a little before sunrise, and expressed unbounded
astonishment at finding the patient still alive. After feeling
the pulse and applying a mirror to the lips, he requested me to
speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, saying:

“M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?”

As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during
the interval the dying man seemed to be collecting his energies
to speak. At my fourth repetition of the question, he said very
faintly, almost inaudibly:

“Yes; still asleep—dying.”

It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians,
that M. Valdemar should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his
present apparently tranquil condition, until death should
supervene—and this, it was generally agreed, must now take place
within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once
more, and merely repeated my previous question.

While I spoke, there came a marked change over the countenance of
the sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the
pupils disappearing upwardly; the skin generally assumed a
cadaverous hue, resembling not so much parchment as white paper;
and the circular hectic spots which, hitherto, had been strongly
defined in the centre of each cheek, went out at once. I use this
expression, because the suddenness of their departure put me in
mind of nothing so much as the extinguishment of a candle by a
puff of the breath. The upper lip, at the same time, writhed
itself away from the teeth, which it had previously covered
completely; while the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk,
leaving the mouth widely extended, and disclosing in full view
the swollen and blackened tongue. I presume that no member of the
party then present had been unaccustomed to death-bed horrors;
but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of M.
Valdemar at this moment, that there was a general shrinking back
from the region of the bed.

I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which
every reader will be startled into positive disbelief. It is my
business, however, simply to proceed.

There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar;
and concluding him to be dead, we were consigning him to the
charge of the nurses, when a strong vibratory motion was
observable in the tongue. This continued for perhaps a minute. At
the expiration of this period, there issued from the distended
and motionless jaws a voice—such as it would be madness in me to
attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or three epithets
which might be considered as applicable to it in part; I might
say, for example, that the sound was harsh, and broken and
hollow; but the hideous whole is indescribable, for the simple
reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of
humanity. There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I
thought then, and still think, might fairly be stated as
characteristic of the intonation—as well adapted to convey some
idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the voice
seemed to reach our ears—at least mine—from a vast distance, or
from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place, it
impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make
myself comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress
the sense of touch.

I have spoken both of “sound” and of “voice.” I mean to say that
the sound was one of distinct—of even wonderfully, thrillingly
distinct—syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke—obviously in reply to
the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had
asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept. He now said:

“Yes;—no;—I have been sleeping—and now—now—I am dead.”

No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress,
the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus
uttered, were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L—l (the student)
swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and could not
be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to
render intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour, we busied
ourselves, silently—without the utterance of a word—in endeavors
to revive Mr. L—l. When he came to himself, we addressed
ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar’s condition.

It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the
exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of
respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I
should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my
will. I endeavored in vain to make it follow the direction of my
hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric
influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue,
whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be
making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition.
To queries put to him by any other person than myself he seemed
utterly insensible—although I endeavored to place each member of
the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have
now related all that is necessary to an understanding of the
sleep-waker’s state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured;
and at ten o’clock I left the house in company with the two
physicians and Mr. L—l.

In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His
condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion
as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had
little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be
served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what
is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric
process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar
would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy,
dissolution.

From this period until the close of last week—an interval of
nearly seven months—we continued to make daily calls at M.
Valdemar’s house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other
friends. All this time the sleeper-waker remained _exactly_ as I
have last described him. The nurses’ attentions were continual.

It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the
experiment of awakening, or attempting to awaken him; and it is
the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter experiment which
has given rise to so much discussion in private circles—to so
much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling.

For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric
trance, I made use of the customary passes. These, for a time,
were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was afforded
by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially
remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by
the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the
lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor.

It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the
patient’s arm, as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr.
F—— then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so,
as follows:

“M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or
wishes now?”

There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks;
the tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth
(although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before), and at
length the same hideous voice which I have already described,
broke forth:

“For God’s sake!—quick!—quick!—put me to sleep—or, quick!—waken
me!—quick!—I say to you that I am dead!”

I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided
what to do. At first I made an endeavor to recompose the patient;
but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I
retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In
this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful—or at least I
soon fancied that my success would be complete—and I am sure that
all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken.

For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that
any human being could have been prepared.

As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of
“dead! dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from
the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once—within the
space of a single minute, or even less,
shrunk—crumbled—absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the
bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of
loathsome—of detestable putrescence.

THE BLACK CAT.

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 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 his
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. 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 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 jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it—if
such a thing wore 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 was
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 stupefied, 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 chimaeras
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 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
woe! 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 nightmare 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 neighbors.
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 merchandise, 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 well 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 fireplace,
that had been filled up, and made to resemble the red 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 brickwork. 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 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 damned 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!

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER

Son cœur est un luth suspendu;
Sitôt qu’on le touche il résonne..

—_De Béranger_.