The Cask of Amontillado (Poe)
Short summary
Italy, carnival season. Montresor vowed revenge against Fortunato for insults he had endured.
He planned his revenge carefully, ensuring he would punish with impunity. Montresor continued to smile at Fortunato, who did not perceive that the smile was at the thought of his immolation. During carnival, Montresor encountered his intoxicated friend wearing a jester costume.
Montresor lured Fortunato to his palazzo by claiming he had acquired a pipe of Amontillado wine and needed his expert opinion. He manipulated Fortunato by mentioning a rival connoisseur, Luchesi. Despite Fortunato's severe cough and the damp vaults, they descended into the catacombs. Montresor led him deeper, offering wine along the way. When they reached a remote niche, Montresor quickly chained Fortunato to the granite wall and began walling up the entrance with stone and mortar. Fortunato's intoxication wore off, and he screamed and rattled his chains, but Montresor continued building the wall. Fortunato then tried to laugh it off as a joke, pleading to leave.
“For the love of God, Montressor!” “Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!” But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud: “Fortunato!”
There was no answer, only the jingling of bells. Montresor forced the last stone into position and plastered it up. He re-erected the old rampart of bones against the new masonry. For half a century, no mortal disturbed them.
Detailed summary
Division into chapters is editorial.
The vow of revenge and the carnival encounter
After enduring countless injuries, the narrator finally reached his breaking point when his acquaintance ventured upon insult. He vowed revenge, but not the kind announced with threats. He resolved to punish with complete impunity, ensuring that retribution would not overtake him and that his victim would know exactly who was avenging himself.
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. ...I must not only punish, but punish with impunity.
The narrator gave no indication of his intentions by word or deed. He continued to smile at his victim, who did not perceive that the smile was now at the thought of his immolation. The victim had a weakness—his pride in his wine connoisseurship. Though he was a quack in painting and gemmary like most Italians, in old wines he was sincere. The narrator was also skilled in Italian vintages and used this shared interest as his weapon.
Descent into the Montresor catacombs
During the carnival season at dusk, the narrator encountered his friend, who accosted him with excessive warmth, having drunk much. The man wore motley—a tight-fitting parti-striped dress with a conical cap and bells.
The narrator told him he had received a pipe of what passed for Amontillado and had doubts about its authenticity. He mentioned he was on his way to consult another expert about it. This immediately provoked his victim, who insisted that this other person could not tell Amontillado from Sherry. Despite the narrator's protests about his friend's engagement and severe cold, and warnings about the damp vaults encrusted with nitre, the victim insisted on going. He possessed himself of the narrator's arm, and they proceeded to the palazzo.
The narrator had ensured no attendants were at home by telling them he would not return until morning and giving explicit orders not to stir from the house—orders he knew would ensure their immediate disappearance. He took two torches and led his companion through several suites of rooms to the archway leading into the vaults. They descended a long, winding staircase to the damp ground of the Montresor catacombs. The victim's gait was unsteady, and the bells on his cap jingled as he strode.
The narrator pointed out the white nitre gleaming from the cavern walls. His companion's eyes were filmy orbs distilling the rheum of intoxication. When a violent coughing fit seized him, the narrator suggested they turn back, praising his companion's worth and mentioning the other expert again. The victim insisted the cough was nothing and would not kill him. The narrator offered him Medoc wine to defend against the damps. As they proceeded deeper, the victim asked about the Montresor family arms—a huge golden human foot crushing a serpent whose fangs were embedded in the heel, with the motto 'Nemo me impune lacessit' (No one attacks me with impunity).
The trap: chaining Fortunato and beginning the wall
After more wine, the victim made a grotesque gesture that the narrator did not understand. When asked if he was of the brotherhood of masons, the narrator produced a trowel from beneath his cloak. They continued through low arches into a deep crypt where the foul air caused their torches to glow rather than flame. At the most remote end appeared a still less spacious interior recess, about four feet deep, three feet wide, and six or seven feet high, formed between two colossal supports of the catacombs.
The narrator urged his companion to proceed into the recess where the Amontillado supposedly waited. In an instant, the victim reached the extremity of the niche and found his progress arrested by rock. The narrator quickly fettered him to the granite using two iron staples, a short chain, and a padlock. The victim was too astonished to resist. Withdrawing the key, the narrator stepped back and mockingly implored him to return, but received only confused exclamations about the Amontillado.
Completing the wall and sealing the tomb
The narrator uncovered building stone and mortar from the pile of bones and began vigorously walling up the entrance. After laying the first tier, he discovered the intoxication had worn off—a low moaning cry came from the recess, not the cry of a drunken man. After a long silence, he heard furious vibrations of the chain. He sat upon the bones to listen with satisfaction. When the clanking subsided, he resumed work and finished the seventh tier. The wall was nearly level with his breast.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated—I trembled.
The narrator unsheathed his rapier and groped about the recess, but quickly felt reassured by the solid fabric of the catacombs. He reapproached the wall and replied to the yells, reechoing and surpassing them in volume and strength until the clamorer grew still. By midnight, he had completed the tenth tier. As he struggled with the final stone, a low laugh came from the niche, succeeded by a sad voice he barely recognized. It suggested this was an excellent jest they would laugh about over wine at the palazzo, and pleaded to be gone. The narrator agreed they should be gone, echoing the final desperate cry 'For the love of God, Montressor!' But no reply came to his calls. He thrust a torch through the remaining aperture—only a jingling of bells returned. His heart grew sick on account of the dampness. He forced the last stone into position, plastered it up, and re-erected the old rampart of bones. For half a century, no mortal disturbed them. In pace requiescat.