EDGAR ALLAN POE
TALES OF MYSTERY AND IMAGINATION
Edgar Allan Poe was an American poet, short story writer and
one of the leaders of the American Romantics. He is best
known for his tales of the macabre (Macabre describes a type
of literary works, characterized by a grim or ghastly
atmosphere. In these works, there is an emphasis on the details
and symbols of death.) and his poems, as well as being one of
the early practitioners of the short story and of detective fiction
in the United States. He is also often credited with inventing
the gothic fiction story. Poe died at the age of 40, the cause of
his death a final mystery.
Poe was born on 19th January 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts. He was the son of actress Elizabeth Arnold
Hopkins Poe and actor David Poe. His father left the family in July 1811, and his mother died of
tuberculosis when he was only two. So Poe was taken into the home of John Allan, a successful tobacco
merchant in Richmond, Virginia. That´s why he later called himself Edgar "Allan" Poe, after this family.
In 1815 the Allans moved from America to Scotland where they stayed for the following five years. Poe
attended a boarding school in London. Poe moved back to the States with the Allans in 1820 and
registered at the University of Virginia in 1826, but only stayed there for one year.
In 1827, at the age of 18, he joined the US Army and three years later entered the Military Academy at
West Point in the state of New York. In this time he started writing.
In 1829 his stepmother died, followed by his stepfather, John Allan, in 1834, who left Poe nothing. Poe
next moved to Baltimore with his widowed aunt, Maria Clemm, and her daughter Virginia Eliza. Poe
wrote to support himself, and in December 1836, he married Virginia, then 13. During the following ten
years, Poe wrote his most famous tales and poems.
In 1847 his wife Virginia died aged only 24. One year later Poe met a Mrs Sarah Whitman to whom he
proposed. In November he went to Boston where he tried to commit suicide. In December a marriage
agreement was made, but the engagement was broken off a few days later.
In July 1849 Poe arrived at a friend´s house in Philadelphia in a state of delirium. On 3rd October 1849 he
was found unconscious in the streets of Baltimore and "in need of immediate assistance", according to the
man who found him. He was taken to hospital, where he died in the early morning of 7th October.
The circumstances of his death are still a mystery today. Poe was not able to explain how he came to be in
this condition and wearing clothes that were not his own. Numerous theories have been proposed over the
years, including several forms of rare brain disease, diabetes, the idea that Poe was drugged, and more
recently, rabies. The rabies death theory is based upon the fact that Poe's symptoms before death are
similar to those displayed in a classic case of rabies. As there is no contemporary documentation (even
Poe's death certificate, if one was ever made out, has been lost), it is likely that the cause of Poe's death
will never be known. Poe is buried in Baltimore.
Poe influenced the the early science fiction author Jules Verne. Along with Mary Shelley, Poe is regarded
as the foremost proponent of the Gothic strain in literary Romanticism. Death, decay and madness were
an obsession for Poe. His curious and often nightmarish work greatly influenced the horror and fantasy
genres such as the gothic novel.
The Cask of Amontillado
adapted from a story by Edgar Allan Poe
I had borne the thousand injuries of Fortunato, but when he insulted me, I swore revenge. You must know
that neither by word nor by deed had I given Fortunato the cause to doubt my good-will. I continued to
smile in his face but he couldn´t know that my smile NOW was because I thought of his fall. He had a
weak point, this Fortunato: He was proud of knowing everything about the different kinds of wine.
It was one evening of the carnival season when I met my friend. He was in a very good mood for he had
been drinking very much. "My dear Fortunato," I said, "I´m happy to meet you. Listen, I´ve got a cask of a
wine which pretends to be Amontillado, but I have my doubts."
"Amontillado?" he asked.
"I have my doubts."
We decided to go back to my house and have a look at the cask of Amontillado. We took two candles and
walked down the stairs which led into the vaults that belonged to the catacombes of the Montresor family.
It was cold and he began shivering and coughing. I took a bottle of wine.
"Here, a draught of this Medoc will defend us from the cold."
He took the wine with a smile and said, "I drink to the dead around us." We passed through long walls of
skeletons into the innermost part of the catacombes.
"The Amontillado?" he asked.
We came to a small niche. "Go on," I said, "herein is the Amontillado." He lifted his candle but couldn´t
see anything in the dim light. Then he stepped forward and I followed. A moment later he had reached the
wall and stood stupidly astonished. Another moment more and I had chained him to the granite.
"The Amontillado ...," said my friend who had not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I answered and then began to wall up the entrance of the niche. When he realized what I was
going to do he began to scream like an animal. I went on with my work.
"For the love of God, let us go!" he cried.
"Yes, for the love of God," I replied and hastened to make an end of my work. "Fortunato!" I called at last
but there was no answer. I shivered in the cold and put the last stone into its position. Against the new
wall I erected another wall out of bones and skulls.
For the half of the century no mortal has disturbed them. IN PACE REQUIESCAT!
A short remark on the Montresor family:
The Montresor family has its roots in France. The count Claude de Montresor
had an important historical position during the days of Cardinal Richelieu
(1585-1642) and took part in the political events as counsellor of the Duke
d'Orleans, the cousin of the king.
The Montresor family is also mentioned in a famous tale of Edgar A. Poe, "The
Amontillado Cask", where a member is described as excellent wine connoisseur.
In the 16th century a branch of the family moved from Chateau
Montresor in the Loire valley to Verona in Italy where they bought land and started
the culture of the wines.
When Giacomo Montresor, in the second half of the 19th century, started to sell the
wines he produced under his family name, he could not imagine that one century later
his wines would be in shops all over the world. Today his successors carry on this
tradition.
The family motto of the Montresor was and still is "Nemo me impune lacessit" which is Latin and
means: "Nobody will insult me without being punished".
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO
´´The thousand injuries of Fortunato
I had borne as best as I could, but
when he ventured upon insult I
vowed revenge.´´
y the last breath of the four winds that blow
I´ll have revenge upon Fortunato
Smile in his face I´ll say "Come let us go
I´ve a cask of Amontillado"
Sheltered inside from the cold of the snow
Follow me now to the vault down below
Drinking the wine as we laugh at the time
Which is passing incredibly slow
(What are these chains that are
binding my arms?)
Part of you dies each passing day
(Say it´s a game and I´ll come to no
harm)
You´ll feel your life slipping away
You who are rich and whose
troubles
are few
May come around to see my point
of view
What price the Crown of a King on
his throne
When you´re chained in the dark all
alone
(Spare me my life only name your
reward)
Part of you dies each brick I lay
(Bring back some light in the name
of the Lord)
to shelter schützen · breath Atem · revenge Rache · vault (Keller-)Gewölbe · incredible
unglaublich · chain Kette · harm Schaden · to spare verschonen · reward Belohnung · brick
Ziegelstein
THE TELL-TALE HEART
´´ ´Villains,´ I shrieked, ´dissemble no more!
I admit the dead! - tear up the planks!
here, here! - it is the beating of his hideous
heart!´ ´´
ou should have seen him
Lying alone in helpless silence in
the night
You should have seen him
You would have seen his eye reflecting
in the light
Louder and louder
Till I could tell the sound was not within
my ears
You should have seen me
You would have seen my eyes grow
white and cold with fear
So for the old man
Ashes to ashes, earth to earth and dust to
dust
No one will see me
No one with guilt to share, no secret
soul to trust
Heard all the things in Heaven and Earth
I´ve seen many things in Hell
But his vulture´s eye of a cold pale blue
Is the eye of the Devil himself
And he won´t be found at all
Not a trace to mark his fall
Nor a stain upon the wall
Take me away now
But let the silence drown the beating of
his heart
helpless hilflos · silence Stille · to reflect spiegeln
ashes Asche · dust Staub · guilt Schuld
to share teilen, teilhaben · soul Seele · to trust (ver)trauen)
trace Spur · stain Fleck · pale fahl, blass · Devil Teufel
to drown ertränken · brick Ziegelstein
THE TELL-TALE HEART
´´ ´Villains,´ I shrieked, ´dissemble no more!
I admit the dead! - tear up the planks!
here, here! - it is the beating of his hideous
heart!´ ´´
ou should have seen him
Lying alone in helpless silence in
the night
You should have seen him
You would have seen his eye reflecting
in the light
Louder and louder
Till I could tell the sound was not within
my ears
You should have seen me
You would have seen my eyes grow
white and cold with fear
So for the old man
Ashes to ashes, earth to earth and dust to
dust
No one will see me
No one with guilt to share, no secret
soul to trust
Heard all the things in Heaven and Earth
I´ve seen many things in Hell
But his vulture´s eye of a cold pale blue
Is the eye of the Devil himself
And he won´t be found at all
Not a trace to mark his fall
Nor a stain upon the wall
Take me away now
But let the silence drown the beating of
his heart
helpless hilflos · silence Stille · to reflect spiegeln
ashes Asche · dust Staub · guilt Schuld
to share teilen, teilhaben · soul Seele · to trust (ver)trauen)
trace Spur · stain Fleck · pale fahl, blass · Devil Teufel
to drown ertränken · brick Ziegelstein
The Tell-Tale Heart
adapted from a story by Edgar Allan Poe
I can´t tell you how the idea came into my mind. I liked the old man. He had never hurt me and I didn´t want his
gold. I think that it was his eye! He had the eye of a vulture. When he looked at me, my blood ran cold. And so I
thought that I had to get rid of his vulture´s eye. Now you might think that I was mad but I can tell you I wasn´t!
Madmen don´t know what they do - but I did. Listen, how carefully I did my work:
I was very friendly with the old man all day. But in the night - at midnight - I stepped into his room. I looked at his
face but his eyes were always closed. So I couldn´t do my work because it wasn´t the old man but his vulture eye
that I hated.
On the eighth night, when I stepped into the old man´s room, he jumped up in bed and shouted, "Who´s there?" I
kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down.
He was still sitting up in bed listening. When I had waited a long time without hearing him lie down, I opened a
little - a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it until a dim ray of light shot out from the crevice and
fell full upon the vulture eye. It was open - wide, wide open - and I grew furious as I stared upon it. I could not see
anything else of the old man´s face as I had directed the ray precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses? Now there came to
my ears a low, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well. It was the
old man´s heart. It made my anger even stronger, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But
even now I kept still. I hardly breathed. I held the lantern motionless and tried to keep the ray upon the eye.
Meanwhile the sound of his beating heart grew louder. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every
minute. The old man´s terror must have been extreme. It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! - do you
understand me well?
I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now, at the dead hour of the night, so strange a noise as this excited
me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I
thought the heart must burst. And now a new thought frightened me: what if the sound was heard by a neighbour!
The old man´s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and jumped into the room. He shrieked
once - once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled. I had
done it. The sound had stopped.
If you still think that I was mad, you will think so no longer when I describe how wisely I worked when hiding the
body. I worked quickly, but in silence. I cut off the head, arms and legs from the dead body. Then I took up three
planks of the wooden floor and hid the parts of the body under it. I then replaced the planks so cleverly, that no
human eye could have detected anything wrong. Ha! - nobody would find the old man there!
Next morning there was a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, - for what had I
now to fear? Three men entered who introduced themselves as officers of the police. A neighbour had heard a cry
in the night and had alarmed them. I smiled, - for what had I to fear? I asked them in. The cry, I said, was my own
in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was away in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I asked them
to search - search well. Finally I led them to the old man´s room. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed.
I brought chairs and asked them to sit down, while I myself, in a feeling of perfect triumph, placed mine upon the
very spot beneath which lay the body of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. They sat and talked of other things. But before long, I
felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. I had a ringing in my ears. I talked to the policemen to get rid of it,
but it continued and became louder until, finally, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now
grew very pale; - but I continued talking to them. Yet the sound grew louder - and what could I do? It was a low,
quick sound - much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton.
I talked more quickly, but the noise steadily increased. Why didn´t they leave? Oh God! what could I do? I swung
the chair upon the planks, but the noise grew louder and louder! And still the policemen talked pleasantly, and
smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!- no, no! They heard! - they suspected! - they knew! - they
were making fun of my horror! - this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this feeling of horror!
Anything was more tolerable! I could bear those smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now - again!
- louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "Stop making fun of me! I admit the deed! - tear up the planks! here, here! - it is the beating
of his hideous heart!"