Edgar Allan Poe

The Black Cat

TomoRRoW i die. TomoRRoW i

die, and today I want to tell the

world what happened and thus

perhaps free my soul from the

horrible weight which lies upon

it.

But listen! Listen, and

you shall hear how I have been

destroyed.

When I was a child I had a

natural goodness of soul which

led me to love animals — all

kinds of animals, but especially

those animals we call pets, ani-

mals which have learned to live

with men and share their homes

with them. There is something in the love of these animals which

speaks directly to the heart of the man who has learned from experi-

ence how uncertain and changeable is the love of other men.

I was quite young when I married. You will understand the joy I

felt to find that my wife shared with me my love for animals. Quickly

she got for us several pets of the most likeable kind. We had birds,

some goldfish, a fine dog, and a cat.

The cat was a beautiful animal, of unusually large size, and

entirely black. I named the cat Pluto, and it was the pet I liked best.

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I alone fed it, and it followed me all around the house. It was even

with difficulty that I stopped it from following me through the streets.

Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during

which, however, my own character became greatly changed. I began

to drink too much wine and other strong drinks. As the days passed

I became less loving in my manner; I became quick to anger; I forgot

how to smile and laugh. My wife — yes, and my pets, too, all except

the cat — were made to feel the change in my character.

One night I came home quite late from the inn, where I now

spent more and more time drinking. Walking with uncertain step,

I made my way with effort into the house. As I entered I saw — or

thought I saw — that Pluto, the cat, was trying to stay out of my way,

to avoid me. This action, by an animal which I had thought still loved

me, made me angry beyond reason. My soul seemed to fly from my

body. I took a small knife out of my coat and opened it. Then I took

the poor animal by the neck and with one quick movement I cut out

one of its fear-filled eyes!

Slowly the cat got well. The hole where its eye had been was not

a pretty thing to look at, it is true; but the cat no longer appeared to

suffer any pain. As might be expected, however, it ran from me in fear

whenever I came near. Why should it not run? Yet this did not fail

to anger me. I felt growing inside myself a new feeling. Who has not,

a hundred times, found himself doing wrong, doing some evil thing

for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Are not

we humans at all times pushed, ever driven in some unknown way to

break the law just because we understand it to be the law?

One day, in cold blood, I tied a strong rope around the cat’s neck,

and taking it down into the cellar under the house I hung it from one

of the wood beams above my head. I hung it there until it was dead.

I hung it there with tears in my eyes, I hung it because I knew it had

loved me, because I felt it had given me no reason to hurt it, because

I knew that my doing so was a wrong so great, a sin so deadly that it

would place my soul forever outside the reach of the love of God!

That same night, as I lay sleeping, I heard through my open win-

dow the cries of our neighbors. I jumped from my bed and found that

the entire house was filled with fire. It was only with great difficulty

that my wife and I escaped. And when we were out of the house, all we

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could do was stand and watch it burn to the ground. I thought of the

cat as I watched it burn, the cat whose dead body I had left hanging in

the cellar. It seemed almost that the cat had in some mysterious way

caused the house to burn so that it could make me pay for my evil act,

so that it could take revenge upon me.

Months went by, and I could not drive the thought of the cat out

of my mind. One night I sat in the inn, drinking, as usual. In the cor-

ner I saw a dark object that I had not seen before. I went over to see

what it could be. It was a cat, a cat almost exactly like Pluto. I touched

it with my hand and petted it, passing my hand softly along its back.

The cat rose and pushed its back against my hand.

Suddenly I realized that I wanted the cat. I offered to buy it from

the innkeeper, but he claimed he had never seen the animal before.

As I left the inn, it followed me, and I allowed it to do so. It soon

became a pet of both my wife and myself.

The morning after I

brought it home, however, I dis-

covered that this cat, like Pluto,

had only one eye. How was it

possible that I had not noticed

this the night before? This fact

only made my wife love the

cat more. But I, myself, found

a feeling of dislike growing in

me. My growing dislike of the

animal only seemed to increase

its love for me. It followed

me, followed me everywhere,

always. When I sat, it lay down

under my chair. When I stood

up it got between my feet and

nearly made me fall. Wherever

I went, it was always there. At

night I dreamed of it. And I

began to hate that cat!

One day my wife called to

me from the cellar of the old

The Black Cat Short story by Edgar Allan Poe