One September night a family had gathered round their hearth, and piled it high with the driftwood of mountain streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing down the precipice. Up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened the room with its broad blaze. The faces of the father and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed; the eldest daughter was the image of Happiness at seventeen; and the aged grandmother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the image of Happiness grown old. They had found the “herb, heart’s-ease,” in the bleakest spot of all New England. This family were situated in the Notch of the White Hills, where the wind was sharp throughout the year, and pitilessly cold in the winter–giving their cottage all its fresh inclemency before it descended on the valley of the Saco. They dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one; for a mountain towered above their heads, so steep, that the stones would often rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight.
Archive for the ‘American literature’ Category
Nathaniel Hawthorne-The Ambitious Guest
Posted in 19th Century literature, American literature, short stories, tagged American literature, classic short stories, Nathaniel Hawthorne, short stories, the Ambitious Guest on April 11, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Poe: Descent into Maelstrom
Posted in American literature, short stories, tagged Edgar Allen Poe, horror, short stories on February 13, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Mark Twain:the celebrated Jumping Frog etc.,
Posted in American literature, humor, short stories, tagged Calveras county, Mark Twain, short stories, The Jumping frog on February 12, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Irwin Shaw: The Girls in their Summer Dresses
Posted in 21st century literature, American literature, short stories, tagged American short stories, Irwin Shaw on February 8, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Fifth Avenue was shining in the sun when they left the Brevoort and started walking toward Washington Square. The sun was warm, even though it was November, and everything looked like Sunday morning–the buses, and the well-dressed people walking slowly in couples and the quiet buildings with the windows closed.
Even Hunter: The Last Spin
Posted in American literature, short stories, tagged Evan Hunter, short stories, the last spin on February 1, 2018| Leave a Comment »
The boy sitting opposite him was his enemy.
The boy sitting opposite him was called Tigo, and he wore a green silk jacket with an orange stripe on each sleeve. The jacket told Danny that Tigo was his enemy. The jacket shrieked, “Enemy, enemy!”
“This is a good piece,” Tigo said, indicating the gun on the table.” This runs you close to forty-five bucks, you try to buy it in a store. That’s a lot of money.”
The gun on the table was a Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special.
It rested exactly in the center of the table, its sawed-off, two-inch barrel abruptly terminating the otherwise lethal grace of the weapon. There was a checked walnut stock on the gun, and the gun was finished in a flat blue. Alongside the gun were three .38 Special cartridges.
Danny looked at the gun disinterestedly. He was nervous and apprehensive, but he kept tight control of his face. He could not show Tigo what he was feeling. Tigo was the enemy, and so he presented a mask to the enemy, cocking one eyebrow and saying, “I seen pieces before. There’s nothing special about this one.” “Except what we got to do with it,” Tigo said. Tigo was studying him with large brown eyes. The eyes were moist-looking. He was not a bad-looking kid, Tigo, with thick black hair and maybe nose that was too long, but his mouth and chin were good. You could usually tell a cat by his mouth and his chin. Tigo would not turkey out of this particular rumble. Of that, Danny was sure. “Why don’t we start?” Danny asked. He wet his lips and looked across at Tigo.
“You understand,” Tigo said, “I got no bad blood for you.” “I understand.”
“This is what the club said. This is how the club said we should settle it. Without a big street diddlebop, you dig? But I want you to know I don’t know you from a hole in the wall-except you wear a blue and gold jacket.”
“And you wear a green and orange one,” Danny said,” and that’s enough for me.”
“Sure, but what I was trying to say…”
“We going to sit and talk all night, or we going to get this thing rolling?” Danny asked.
“What I’m tryin to say,” Tigo went on, “is that I just happened to be picked for this, you know? Like to settle this thing that’s between the two clubs I mean, you got to admit your boys shouldn’t have come in our territory last night.”
“I got to admit nothing,” Danny said flatly.
“Well, anyway, they shot at the candy store. That wasn’t right. There’s supposed to be a truce on.”
“Okay, okay,” Danny said.
“So like… like this is the way we agreed to settle it. I mean, one of us and… and one of you. Fair and square. Without any street boppin’, and without any law trouble.”
“Let’s get on with it,” Danny said.
“I’m trying to say, I never even seen you on the street before this. So this ain’t nothin’ personal with me. Whichever way it turns out, like…”
“I never seen you neither,” Danny said.
Tigo stared at him for a long time. “That’s cause you’re new around here. Where you from originally?”
“My people come down from the Bronx.”
“You got a big family?”
“A sister and two brothers, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I only got a sister.” Tigo shrugged. “Well.” He sighed. “So.” He sighed again. “Let’s make it, huh?”
“I’m waitin’,” Danny said.
Tigo picked up the gun, and then he took one of the cartridges from the table top. He broke open the gun, slid the cartridge into the cylinder, and then snapped the gun shut and twirled the cylinder. “Round and round she goes,” he said, “and where she stops, nobody knows. There’s six chambers in the cylinder and only one cartridge. That makes the odds five-to-one that the cartridge’ll be in firing position when the cylinder stops whirling. You dig?”
“I dig.”
“I’ll go first,” Tigo said.
Danny looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”
“You want to go first?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m giving you a break.” Tigo grinned. “I may blow my head off first time out.”
“Why you giving me a break?” Danny asked.
Tigo shrugged. “What the hell’s the difference?” He gave the cylinder a fast twirl.
“The Russians invented this, huh?” Danny asked.
“Yeah.”
“I always said they was crazy bastards.”
“Yeah, I always…” Tigo stopped talking. The cylinder was stopped now. He took a deep breath, put the barrel of the .38 to his temple, and then squeezed the trigger.
The firing pin clicked on an empty chamber.
“Well, that was easy, wasn’t it?” he asked. He shoved the gun across the table. “Your turn, Danny.”
Danny reached for the gun. It was cold in the basement room, but he was sweating now. He pulled the gun toward him, then left it on the table while he dried his palms on his trousers. He picked up the gun then and stared at it.
“It’s a nifty piece,” Tigo said. “I like a good piece.”
“Yeah, I do too,” Danny said. “You can tell a good piece just by the way it feels in your hand.”
Tigo looked surprised. “I mentioned that to one of the guys yesterday, and he thought I was nuts.
“Lots of guys don’t know about pieces,” Danny said, shrugging. “I was thinking,” Tigo, said, “when I get old enough, I’ll join the Army, you know? I’d like to work around pieces.”
“I thought of that, too. I’d join now only my old lady won’t give me permission. She’s got to sign if I join now.”
“Yeah, they’re all the same,” Tigo said smiling. “Your old lady born here or the old country?”
“The old country,” Danny said.
“Yeah, well you know they got these old-fashioned ideas.”
“I better spin,” Danny said.
“Yeah,” Tigo agreed.
Danny slapped the cylinder with his left hand. The cylinder whirled, whirled, and then stopped. Slowly, Danny put the gun to his head. He wanted to close his eyes, but he didn’t dare. Tigo, the enemy, was watching him. He returned Tigo’s stare, and then he squeezed the trigger.
His heart skipped a beat, and then over the roar of his blood he heard the empty click. Hastily, he put the gun down on the table.
“Makes you sweat, don’t it?” Tigo said.
Danny nodded, saying nothing. He watched Tigo. Tigo was looking at the gun.
“Me now, huh?” Tigo said. He took a deep breath, then picked up the .38. He twirled the cylinder, waited for it to stop, and then put the gun to his head.
“Bang!” Tigo said, and then he squeezed the trigger. Again the firing pin clicked on an empty chamber. Tigo let out his breath and put the gun down.
“I thought I was dead that time,” he said.
“I could hear the harps,” Danny said.
“This is a good way to lose weight, you know that?” Tigo laughed nervously, and then his laugh became honest when he saw Danny was laughing with him. “Ain’t it the truth?” You could lose ten pounds this way.”
“My old lady’s like a house,” Danny said laughing. “She ought to try this kind of a diet.” He laughed at his own humor, pleased when Tigo joined him.
“That’s the trouble,” Tigo said. “You see a nice deb in the street, you think it’s crazy, you know? Then they get to be our people’s age, and they turn to fat.” He shook his head.
“You got a chick?” Danny asked.
“Yeah, I got one.”
“What’s her name?”
“Aw, you don’t know her.”
“Maybe I do,” Danny said.
“Her name is Juana.” Tigo watched him. “She’s about five-two, got these brown eyes…”
“I think I know her,” Danny said. He nodded. “Yeah, I think I know her.”
“She’s nice, ain’t she?” Tigo asked. He leaned forward, as if Danny’s answer was of great importance to him.
“Yeah she’s nice,” Danny said.
“Yeah. Hey maybe sometime we could…” Tigo cut himself short. He looked down at the gun, and his sudden enthusiasm seemed to ebb completely. “It’s you turn,” he said.
“Here goes nothing,” Danny said. He twirled the cylinder, sucked in his breath, and then fired.
The emptily click was loud in the stillness of the room.
“Man!” Danny said.
“We’re pretty lucky, you know?” Tigo said.
“So far.”
“We better lower the odds. The boys won’t like it if we…” He stopped himself again, and then reached for one of the cartridges on the table. He broke open the gun again, slipped in the second cartridge into the cylinder. “Now we got two cartridges in here,” he said. “Two cartridges, six chambers. That’s four-to-two. Divide it, and you get two-to-two.” He paused. “You game?”
“That’s… that’s what we’re here for, ain’t it?”
“Sure.”
“Okay then.”
“Gone,” Tigo said, nodding his head. “You got courage, Danny.”
“You’re the one needs the courage,” Danny said gently. “It’s your spin.”
“Tigo lifted the gun. Idly, he began spinning the cylinder.
“You live on the next block, don’t you?” Danny asked.
“Yeah.” Tigo kept slapping the cylinder. It spun with a gently whirring sound.
“That’s how come we never crossed paths, I guess. Also, I’m new on the scene.”
“Yeah, well you know, you get hooked up with one club, that’s the way it is.”
“You like the guys on you club?” Danny asked, wondering why he was asking such a stupid question, listening to the whirring of the cylinder at the same time.
“They’re okay.” Tigo shrugged. “None of them really send me, but that’s the club on my block, so what’re you gonna do, huh?” His hand left the cylinder. It stopped spinning. He put the gun to his head.
“Wait!” Danny said.
Tigo looked puzzled. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to say… I mean…” Danny frowned. “I don’t dig too many of the guys on my club, either.”
Tigo nodded. For a moment, their eyes locked. Then Tigo shrugged, and fired.
The empty click filled the basement room.
“Phew,” Tigo said.
“Man, you can say that again.”
Tigo slid the gun across the table.
Danny hesitated an instant. He did not want to pick up the gun. He felt sure that this time the firing pin would strike the percussion cap of one of the cartridges. He was sure that this time he would shoot himself.
“Sometimes I think I’m turkey,” he said to Tigo, surprised that his thoughts had found voice.
“I feel that way sometimes, too,” Tigo said.
“I never told that to nobody,” Danny said. “The guys on my club would laugh at me, I ever told them that.”
“Some things you got to keep to yourself. There ain’t nobody you can trust in this world.”
“There should be somebody you can trust,” Danny said. “Hell, you can’t tell nothing to your people. They don’t understand.” Tigo laughed. “That’s an old story. But that’s the way things are. What’re you gonna do?”
“Yeah. Still, sometimes I think I’m turkey.”
“Sure, sure,” Tigo said. “It ain’t only that, though. Like sometimes… well, don’t you wonder what you’re doing stomping some guy in the street? Like … you know what I mean? Like … who’s the guy to you? What you got to beat him up for? ‘Cause he messed with somebody else’s girl?” Tigo shook his head. “It gets complicated sometimes.”
“Yeah, but …” Danny frowned again. “You got to stick with the club. Don’t you?”
“Sure, sure … hell yes.” Again, their eyes locked.
“Well, here goes.” Danny said. He lifted the gun. “It’s just …” He shook his head, and then twirled the cylinder. The cylinder spun, and then stopped. He studied the gun, wondering if one of the cartridges would roar from the barrel when he squeezed the trigger.
Then he fired.
Click.
“I didn’t think you was going through with it,” Tigo said.
“I didn’t neither.”
“You got heart, Danny,” Tigo said. He looked at the gun. He picked it up and broke it open.
“What you doing?” Danny asked.
“Another cartridge,” Tigo said. “Six chambers, three cartridges. That makes it even money. You game?”
“You?” “The boys said… ” Tigo stopped talking. “Yeah, I’m game,” he added, his voice curiously low.
“It’s your turn, you know.”
“I know,” Danny watched as Tigo picked up the gun.
“You ever been rowboating on the lake?”
Tigo looked across the table at Danny, his eyes wide. “Once,” he said. “I went with Juana.”
“Is it … is it any kicks?”
“Yeah. Yeah, its grand kicks. You mean you never been?”
“No,” Danny said.
“Hey, you got to tryin, man,” Tigo said excitedly. “You’ll like it. Hey, you try it.”
“Yeah, I was thinking maybe this Sunday I’d … ” He did not complete the sentence.
“My spin,” Tigo said wearily. He twirled the cylinder. “Here goes a good man,” he said, and he put the revolver to his head and squeezed the trigger.
Click.
Danny smiled nervously. “No rest for the weary,” he said. “But Jesus you’ve got the heart. I don’t know if I can go through with it.”
Sure, you can,” Tigo assured him. “Listen, what’s there to be afraid of?” He slid the gun across the table.
“We keep this up all night?” Danny asked.
“They said … you know … ”
“Well, it ain’t so bad. I mean, hell, we didn’t have this operation, we wouldn’ta got a chance to talk, huh?” He grinned feebly.
“Yeah,” Tigo said, his face splitting in a wide grin. “It ain’t been so bad, huh?”
“No, it’s been … well, you know, these guys on the club, who can talk to them?”
He picked up the gun. “We could …” Tigo started.
“What?”
“We could say … well … like we kept shootin’ an’ nothing happened, so …” Tigo shrugged. “What the hell! We can’t do this all night, can we?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s make this the last spin. Listen, they don’t like it, they can take a flying leap, you know?”
“I don’t think they’ll like it. We’re supposed to settle this for the clubs.”
“Screw the clubs!” Tigo said. “Can’t we pick our own …” The word was hard coming. When it came, his eyes did not leave Danny’s face. “… friends?”
“Sure we can,” Danny said vehemently. “Sure we can! Why not?”
“The last spin,” Tigo said. “Come on, the last spin.”
“Gone,” Danny said. “Hey you know, I’m glad they got this idea. You know that? I’m actually glad!” He twirled the cylinder. “Look, you want to go on the lake this Sunday? I mean with your girl and mine? We could get two boats. Or even one if you want.” “Yeah, one boat,” Tigo Said. “Hey, your girl’ll like Juana, I mean it. She’s a swell chick.”
The cylinder stopped. Danny put the gun to his head quickly.
“Here’s to Sunday,” he said. He grinned at Tigo, and Tigo grinned back, and then Danny fired.
The explosion rocked the small basement room, ripping away half of Danny’s head, shattering his face. A small cry escaped Tigo’s throat, and a look of incredulous shock knifed his eyes. Then he put his head on the table and began weeping.
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Poe: the cask of amontillado
Posted in American literature, short stories, tagged classic short stories, Edgar Allen Poe, short stories, the cask of amontillado on January 30, 2018| Leave a Comment »
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled–but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good-will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point–this Fortunato–although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity–to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack–but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting party-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him: “My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”
“How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!”
“I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.”
“Amontillado!”
“I have my doubts.”
“Amontillado!”
“And I must satisfy them.”
“Amontillado!”
“As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me– ”
“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.”
“And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.”
“Come, let us go.”
“Whither?”
“To your vaults.”
“My friend, no. I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi–”
“I have no engagement–come.”
“My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre.”
“Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado.”
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaure closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
“The pipe,” said he.
“It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls.”
He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.
“Nitre?” he asked, at length.
“Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough?”
“Ugh! ugh! ugh!–ugh! ugh! ugh!–ugh! ugh! ugh!–ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh!”
My poor friend found it impossible to reply. for many minutes.
“It is nothing,” he said at last.
“Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi–”
“Enough,” he said: “the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.”
“True–true.” I replied; “and indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily–but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.”
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
“Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
“I drink,” he said, “to the buried that repose around us.”
“And I to your long life.”
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
“These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.”
“The Montresors,” I replied, “were a great and numerous family.”
“I forget your arms.”
“A huge human foot d’or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel.”
“And the motto?”
“Nemo me impune lacessit.”
“Good!” he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
“The nitre!” I said; “see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river’s bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough–”
“It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc.”
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed, and threw the bottle upward with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement–a grotesque one.
“You do not comprehend?” he said.
“Not I,” I replied.
“Then you are not of the brotherhood.”
“How?”
“You are not of the masons.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, “yes, yes.”
“You? Impossible! A mason?”
“A mason,” I replied.
“A sign,” he said.
“It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaure.
“You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. “But let us proceed to the Amontillado.”
“Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and, descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi–”
“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fetteredhim to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key, I stepped back from the recess.
“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is verydamp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power.”
“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
“True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.”
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building-stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the masonwork, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
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. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I reëchoed–I aided–I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said:
“Ha! ha! ha!–he! he! he!–a very good joke indeed–an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo–he! he! he!–over our wine–he! he! he!”
“The Amontillado!” I said.
“He! he! he!–he! he! he!–yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo–the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”
“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”
“For the love of God, Montresor!”
“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!”
No answer. I called again:
“Fortunato!”
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick–on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I reërected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat.
The Gift of the Magi-O Henry
Posted in American literature, short stories, tagged Christmas, feel good stories, O. Henry on January 29, 2018| Leave a Comment »
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