Had my very life hung upon the movement of a limb or the utterance of a syllable, I could have neither stirred nor spoken—so paralyzed had I been rendered by the fearful sight before me. Even the boisterous frontiersman had been startled, for once, into an appalled and absolute silence. Crouched before the cabinet, we stared aghast at its grisly contents, utterly oblivious of the rest of our surroundings—until a voice behind us said:
“So, you have discovered the gem of my collection!”
So abrupt, so unexpected were these words that my reaction could not have been more violent had a hired assassin snuck up behind me and discharged a pistol at my back. Emitting a startled cry, I lost my hold upon the heavy candelabrum and let it fly from my hand; while Crockett swiftly spun around to face the unseen speaker. As he did so, he caught sight of the airborne candelabrum and—shooting out a hand——snatched it by the stem.
“Good heavens!” cried Roger Asher—for it was, indeed, that singular being who had come up behind us in so stealthy a manner. “Are you all right, Mr. Poe?”
A moment passed before I was fully capable of speech. “Fine, quite fine,” I said at last, extracting my pocket handkerchief and using it to dab away the moisture that had sprung to my brow and upper lip. “Your abrupt and unanticipated observation merely caught me unawares.”
“Well, I ain’t so all-fired fine,” Crockett proclaimed.
Raising one eyebrow, Asher turned to regard the frontiersman. “And what is the matter, Colonel Crockett?”
“This here’s the matter,” the frontiersman replied——and with that, he thrust the candelabrum close to the glass-fronted case, illuminating the appalling object within.
“Ah yes,” smiled Asher, rubbing his long, pale hands together as though attempting to cleanse them of a stain visible only to himself. “Magnificent, is she not?”
“Magnificent!” Crockett cried, nearly sputtering with indignation. “Why, in all my born days, I ain’t never set eyes on nuthin’ that were half so horrificacious!”
For a moment, Asher simply stared at him in wordless surprise. Then a burst of hilarity issued from his throat. “I see! I see!” he said when his laughter had finally subsided. “You take her for the real thing. Ah well. It is a tribute to the genius of the great Fontana!”
“Fontana?” I exclaimed “Do you mean the renowned Florentine naturalist?”
Turning in my direction, Asher gazed at me with an approving look. “My compliments, Mr. Poe. I perceive that you are a man of rare erudition”
I acknowledged this commendation with a little bow.
“You are correct,” Asher continued. “The objet displayed within this cabinet is, indeed, an original product of the esteemed abbot’s atelier.”
“The steamed abbot’s what?” Crocked: ejaculated.
“His studio,” said I to Crockett as I turned to gaze again at the cabinet—not, this time, with the sense of unutterable horror with which I had formerly contemplated its contents, but with a sentiment of the purest admiration—astonishment—even awe.
“This is not,” I continued, “the fiendishly mutilated body of an actual female, as you and I mistakenly believed. Rather, it is—so we may infer from Mr. Asher’s assertion—a wax sculpture of uncanny realism, crafted under the direction of the celebrated eighteenth-century cleric, Abbot Felice Fontana of Florence, Italy, whose world-famous shop produced anatomical specimens for use by the medical specialists of his day. So stunningly detailed, so exquisitely rendered were these models that no less a personage than Emperor Joseph II of Austria, after making a pilgrimage to Florence to view Fontana’s creations, bestowed a knighthood upon him and commissioned him with the execution of nearly twelve hundred pieces!”
“Good land!” Crocked: exclaimed. “You mean to tell me that this-here piece o’ gruesomeness ain’t nuthin’ but a hunk o’ beeswax?”
Asher emitted a low-throated chuckle. “It is indeed, Colonel Crockett—though only in the sense that the David of Michelangelo Buonarroti is nothing more than a ‘hunk of Carrara marble.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” muttered Crockett as he squinted through the glass front of the display cabinet.
“But how,” I inquired, “did you come to be in possession of such a treasure?”
The question elicited a tremulous sigh from pur pallid host. “There was a time, Mr. Poe, when no indulgence was beyond my pecuniary means. But that,” he added in a musing voice, “was in a day long past—before utter, irredeemable ruin descended upon the once-proud house of Asher.” For a moment, he seemed to become oblivious of his surroundings, his eyes assuming a wistfully meditative and faraway look.
Suddenly, he bestirred himself from this melancholy reverie and focussed his attention once again on our presence. “Come, gentlemen,” he said with somewhat strained cordiality. “My sister is resting soundly. Oh yes. Very soundly indeed. Allow me to offer you some small refreshment. You must be famished after your long journey.”
“Now you’re talkin’I” Crockett declared. “Why, I am so all-fired hungry, I could eat a whole bushel o’ bear-steaks, salted with hail storm and peppered with buckshot!”
“I fear that I cannot offer you anything quite so substantial,” Asher smiled. “But what pitiful fare I possess, you are more than welcome to share. And as we dine, you can tell me, at long last, what has brought you to my doorstep.”
Turning on his heels, he began to lead us from the cavernous chamber. Before he had proceeded more than a step or two, however, he paused—swivelled—and extended one long, bony hand in Crockett’s direction.
“Allow me to relieve you of that light, Colonel,” said he. “Though your hands are, I am sure, a great deal steadier than those of your friend, I would feel more confident if the candelabrum were in my own. My abode, as you may perceive, is full of old and exceedingly combustible furnishings. It would take very little to ignite a blaze and turn the entire house into an inferno.”
And then, with an odd, rueful smile, he added: “Or rather, even more of an inferno than it already is to those of us doomed to inhabit it.”
Asher’s characterization of his culinary offerings as “pitiful” proved to be—not the customary, self-deprecating protestation that etiquette demands of a dinner host—but strict and wholly warranted truth. Guiding us by candlelight through the shadowy corridors and cavernous chambers of his vast and sprawling mansion, our pale and wraithlike host ushered us into a gloomy, low-ceilinged kitchen, where, within a smoky fireplace, a large iron cauldron sat upon a bed of glowing coals, sending forth thick and exceedingly malodorous fumes. As Crockett and I seated ourselves at an ancient, benchlike table that occupied the center of the room, Asher bustled about the kitchen, fetching pewter bowls and tarnished utensils, which he set before us, along with heavy glass tumblers and a dark, dusty decanter of wine.
“What else?” he wondered aloud, while rubbing his hands in his characteristic gesture. “Ah, yes!” He hurried across the room to a sideboard that stood in the shadows; whereupon we heard him exclaim, “Shoo! Shoo!” This ejaculation was instantly followed by the frantic scrabbling sound of dispersing rodents. Seconds later, he returned with a wooden platter that held the remnants of a dark, crusty loaf, pocked with dozens of miniature teethmarks.
“Now,” Asher said, setting the bread down upon the table. “For the pièce de résistance”
As our host stepped over to the fireplace, Crockett directed an interrogatory look at me across the table and whispered, “For the what?”
“The main dish,” I explained in language suitable to the frontiersman’s understanding. Reaching for the decanter, I carefully filled each of our glasses nearly to the top, then set the receptacle back upon the table.
Moments later, our host returned with a large ceramic crock out of which protruded the handle of a tarnished silver ladle. Grasping the ladle in one hand, he used it to fill each of our bowls with a bubbling portion of some pungent, viscous mixture, evidently of that variety commonly known in the South as a gumbo. The appearance, texture, and aroma of this concoction were so wholly unappetizing that—in spite of the audible rumblings issuing from my abdominal region—I could scarcely bring myself to sample it. Only the dictates of civilized etiquette compelled me to spoon a modicum into my mouth. In no way to my surprise, its taste turned out to be in utter conformity with its other attributes—which is to say, repellent in the extreme.
Its vileness, however, seemed in no wise to deter the appetite of the frontiersman, who proceeded to empty his bowl with avidity.
As for myself, I could not tolerate more than a few tastes of the loathsome pottage, which I managed to consume only by washing each separate spoonful down with a mouthful of the decanted beverage. This latter proved to be a very passable, indeed quite exceptional, Amontillado sherry.
Stimulated by the bracing effects of this fluid, I commenced—at Asher’s prompting—to recount the ostensible reason for our visit, setting forth a story which Crockett and I had devised during our journey from the city. According to this tale, Crockett—as part of his campaign against the political machinations of President Jackson—was taking advantage of his current tour to secure the financial support of the most prominent and well-to-do citizens in each of the cities that he was visiting.
“But am I not correct in believing, Colonel Crockett, that you yourself are a protégé and onetime comrade-in-arms of our glorious leader?” The bitterly ironical tone with which Asher pronounced the latter phrase made his own political sympathies sufficiently clear.
“True enough,” said the frontiersman, tearing off a portion of the rodent-gnawed loaf and using it to mop up the vestiges of soup that clung to the inner surfaces of his bowl. “But me an’ Ol’ Hick’ry have come to a parting o’ the ways. I still admire the man and am proud to have fought alongside him. But it now appears that I am expected to bow to his policies, no matter at what cost to my conscience. And that just ain’t my style. Nossir—Davy Crockett ain’t the kind to sneeze when another man takes snuff”
“A commendable sentiment,” said Asher. “But I am afraid, Colonel Crockett, that if you have travelled out here in the hope that I might offer some pecuniary support for your campaign, you have made the journey in vain.” Letting his spoon fall into his emptied bowl with a clatter, Asher shut his eyes and passed one trembling hand over his brow, as though afflicted with a sudden headache. “Do you imagine, sir, that I live in such straitened—such hellish—circumstances by choice?” After a brief pause, he opened his eyes again and gazed at Crockett with a look of surpassing bitterness. “However prominent the Asher name remains, the fortune upon which its reputation was founded exists no more!”
By this time, I had drained my tumbler of its contents and was in the process of replenishing it from the decanter. Though my extreme sensitivity to alcoholic stimulation led me—under ordinary circumstances—to maintain a rigorous temperance, I could scarcely refrain from indulging in Asher’s excellent vintage, whose beneficent warmth had already served to quell much of the inner agitation induced in me by the trying events of that long, fatiguing, and exceedingly debilitating day. Imbibing another large swallow of the sherry, I felt my entire being infused with a sense of such profound contentment that the glum, oppressive kitchen—with its cobwebbed roof beams and crimson-eyed rodents peering out from the shadowy corners—began to assume a most pleasing, snug, and even homelike aspect in my perception.
“If I may be so bold,” I said at last, speaking very slowly and deliberately “I am most curious to learn the details of your family’s misfortunes, having heard certain rumors over the years in regard to the matter.”
Asher responded with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I do not wish to discuss it. Suffice it to say that the calamity was brought about by the Machiavellian dealings of a scoundrel named Macready.”
“Macready?” Crocket said in a tone of exaggerated ingenuousness. “Like that poor landlady that was so savagerously murdered in her boarding house on Howard Street?”
Asher, who had just taken a sip from his tumbler, appeared so startled by these words that he nearly expectorated the liquid from his mouth. “Murdered!” he gasped. “When?”
“Just two days past,” said Crockett. “On Wednesday.”
“How very bizarre!” said our host. “I myself was not far from Howard Street that day, having escorted my poor sister Marilynne to the home of the eminent Dr. Balderston for a consultation on her rapidly worsening condition.”
At this casual admission—which established Asher’s presence in the city at the very time of the killing—Crocked: and I exchanged a meaningful look.
“And who was responsible for the deed?” Asher continued.
“Danged if I know,” Crockett replied with a shrug.
For a moment, Asher sat in silent meditation. At length, in a voice so muted that he appeared to be reflecting aloud, he said: “Then that is the end of the detested line. Good! Good! But how strange that it should happen now, when I myself dream of—” Before he could finish articulating this enigmatic thought, he gave his head a rapid shake, as though rousing himself from a reverie.
“Enough of these morbid musings!” he exclaimed in a tone of somewhat strained and hollow-sounding conviviality. Reaching for the wine decanter, he replenished all three of our glasses, then lifted his own in a toast. “To your health, gentlemen!”
Raising his tumbler to his lips, he threw back his head and drained his drink in a single swallow.
I myself had imbibed a considerable quantity of the Amontillado by then, and was staring with rapt intensity at the silver candelabrum, whose three glowing tapers seemed to float before my eyes like a trio of ravishing, golden-tressed faeries garbed in robes of gossamer white. So transfixed was I by this radiant vision that only gradually did it dawn upon my consciousness that my host was endeavoring to communicate with me.
“Excuse me?” said I, my words sounding strangely slurred to my ears.
“I was inquiring as to your profession, Mr. Poe. I am still ignorant of the line of work you pursue.”
“Pursue?” said I, quaffing another mouthful of the wine. “I pursue the most rare—most elusive—prize of all: Ideal Beauty!”
“Indeed!” said Asher in a tone that carried a subtle, if unmistakable, note of wry amusement. “And with what weapons do you stalk this precious quarry?”
“I wield only one,” I grandly declared. “My quill!”
“I see!” he exclaimed. “So you are a writer!”
I acknowledged the accuracy of this observation with a little bow.
“And what exactly is it that you write?”
“Tales—poems—”
“And the orneriest book reviews this side o’ thunderation!” Crockett interjected.
“Splendid!” cried Asher, ignoring Crockett’s remark. “Our country is in desperate need of poets.”
“Hear! Hear!” I exclaimed, as I placed my hands upon the edge of the table and began to push myself to my feet. “Let us drink to the Muse Erato, Goddess of the lyric!”
Unfortunately, I had underestimated the unmanning effects which Asher’s intoxicating beverage had already produced upon my nervous system. As I attempted to rise—preparatory to delivering my toast—my feet became entangled in the legs of my stool and I found myself sprawled upon my back, staring upwards at the heavy wooden ceiling beams, which appeared to be rotating at a most alarming rate of speed.
As though from a considerable distance, I could hear the voice of my eccentric host exclaim: “Oh dear!”
As I vainly attempted to elevate myself from the floor—which appeared to be rocking in a most singular manner, not unlike the deck of a storm-tossed vessel—I became aware that Crocked; had risen from his seat and was looming directly above me, one hand out-stretched in my direction. “Grab ahold, ol’ hoss. I reckon you’ve had a mite too much to drink.”
I reached up and clasped the frontiersman’s hand, whereupon he drew me upright with a single, forceful tug. Regarding me with a look of intense solicitude, our host asked if I had sustained any hurt.
“None whatsoever,” I assured him. “Indeed, I am feeling quite energetic, and am most eager to commence our journey homeward.”
“I will not hear of it,” Asher declared. “I insist that you both remain here tonight as my guests. Come” Rising from his place, he took hold of the three-branched candelabrum and motioned us to follow him from the room.
“C’mon, ol’ hoss,” said Crockett, clutching me by one elbow. “Lemme help you navigate.”
Submitting myself to the frontiersman’s assistance, I allowed him to lead me from the kitchen and through the intricate passageways and cavernous chambers of the great, gloomy manse—our pallid host preceding us by several paces, his glowing candelabrum held aloft. My faculties of perception—so acute under ordinary circumstances—had been reduced to a state of such alcohol-induced bleariness that I was able to form only a vague and general impression of my surroundings: of the heavy, sombre tapestries—the dark, massive furnishings—the phantasmagoric armorial trophies—and the atmosphere of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom that hung over and pervaded all.
After what seemed to be an interminable period, I found myself ascending—with the aid of the frontiersman—a long, steep, and twisting stairway. Then I was escorted along a dark and narrow corridor, whose walls were lined with countless antique portraits in the fantastic style of the sixteenth-century visionary Domenico Theotocopuli. At last, our host came to a halt before a heavy, carved door, into whose lock he inserted a key from an iron ring which he extracted from his coat pocket. Then the door was flung open, and I felt myself being led across the threshold and into a musty-smelling chamber, whose central feature was a large canopied bed that occupied the middle of the room.
While Crockett helped me struggle out of my frockcoat, Asher stepped to the head of the four-poster and enkindled an agate lamp that stood upon a small, oval bed-table. Then, turning towards me with a little bow, he bade me good-night and walked briskly from the room.
Crockett steered me towards the bed, whereupon I seated myself on the edge of the mattress, crossed one leg over the other, and began to remove my boots in preparation for retiring. As I struggled with the laces, my companion took a quick glance over his shoulder—as though to ascertain that Asher had, in fact, departed—then leaned close to me and said, in a voice that was scarcely louder than a whisper: “You had best hit the hay, Poe, for that liquor has made you downright obfusticated. I aim to do me some more jawin’ with ol’ Asher and see what I can pry out o’ him, for I am plumb mistrustful of that rascal. If he ain’t nuttier’n a squirrel in an acorn patch, I wish I may be hanged!” Patting me on the shoulder, he said, “See you in the mornin’, pard”—then turned and hurried from the room.
Abandoning my efforts to undo my boot-laces—which appeared to have been knotted with such diabolical cunning that they might have been tied by King Gordius himself—I extinguished the bed lamp and collapsed backwards onto my pillow. To my great surprise and consternation, however, the beneficent god Somnus did not immediately hold out to me his cup of sweet nepenthe. Recumbent upon the great canopied bed, I lay open-eyed in the unfamiliar darkness, while—all about me—a profusion of bizarre and lurid apparitions seemed to swirl madly about in mid-air, as though engaged in the delirious revelry of a wild and unrestrained masque.
At length, these riotous spectres merged into the no less vivid phantasms of dream. I sank into a fitful slumber. How long I remained in this unconscious state, I cannot say with precision, I am certain of only one thing—that, at some later point in that harrowing night, I awoke from my sleep with a stifled gasp of horror—possessed by the sudden and absolute conviction that I was no longer alone in the chamber!
At first I was too frightened to employ my vision, Motionlessly, I lay with my eyes closed tight, attempting to persuade myself that I was merely imagining the presence of another being in the room. At length, I forced my shuttered lids apart. How shall I attempt to convey the utter—the inexpressible—terror that gripped me at the confirmation of my awful apprehension?
A dark and ominous figure loomed at the foot of my bed. Biting my lower lip to prevent myself from crying aloud, I lay there in an agony of mortal dread. Perhaps, thought I, the figure was merely another airy, alcohol-induced chimera. But no! It was far too real—far too substantial—to be an illusion. Besides, though my head throbbed with pain, I could tell that I had largely recovered from the effects of my intemperance and was once again in full possession of my senses!
For what seemed like an eternity (though it could not have been longer than a few moments) I remained rigidly immobile, hardly daring to breathe. Neither Asher nor Crockett had thought to draw the draperies of the single window in the room; and now, through the unobstructed panes, a flood of moonlight came spilling inside—the cloud-covered sky having evidently cleared up at long last. As my vision grew adapted to the luminary conditions of the chamber, I could see with increasing clarity that the intruder was—a woman!
Perspiration burst from every pore of my body, and stood in icy beads upon my forehead. All at once, the dark figure began to move—or, rather, float—toward the head of my bed. Closer and closer it drew, until it seemed to hover directly above me. It bent nearer to my pillow, until I could feel its soft breath upon my face. At that instant, its own countenance was illuminated by the in-flooding moonlight, and I gazed up at its features with a feeling of utter disbelief and incomprehension.
A numbness—an iciness of feeling—pervaded my frame. I gasped for breath. My breast heaved—my brain reeled—and my whole spirit was possessed with a vague yet intolerable anguish.
With a wild cry of terror, I half-started from my pillow—then fell backwards and lapsed into a swoon!