Justifying My English Degree: The Cask of Amontillado
Back in the day on my personal blog, I had a running “feature” I called “Justifying My English Degree”, a place where I would critique works of media, often popular or genre that would be ignored as “not having substance”, the work of poseurs, etc. For critique, I was taught in the school of feminist critique and reader response, the latter being my favorite, because both allowed the reader and critic to posit readings and theories that only asked textual evidence to back up any claim. So, I started to write essays for fun. I’m as shocked as most were, but it felt validating to use my education to pick through media works and find new angles and entrances into a work.
The Cask of Amontillado is a work of Poe that’s taught in junior high with many of Poe’s other works and poems, but I returned to it in grad school, eager to delve into its prose and find theory amongst the long journey into the catacombs. Here is my critique, and a question: how valuable is a peaceful sleep
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When reading modern horror, I've become used to the twist ending. It's a common device, a reveal at the end of the piece to show that the happy ending is not nearly as secure as one might believe. Watching The Twilight Zone and reading Tales From the Crypt, I would always know that on the final page or in the final scene there would be a twist in the plot usually followed by some voiceover explaining the characters' hubris. When reading Poe, one of the forerunners of American horror, I was curious if there would be a twist of some sort. With “The Cask of Amontilado”, the final lines are “Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal as disturbed them. In pace requiescat!” No real twist there. Montresor plans to kill Forunato, he dupes his victim, and succeeds in the murder, with no one ever finding out about it. There's no twist, no just desserts for Montresor's hubris. Or is there? The final lines of the piece intrigued me. Why mention that the bones and masonry have not been disturbed for fifty years? It only causes me as the reader to ask the question of “How does Montresor know that in fifty years time, no one has ever checked those bones?” Also, how could he be certain that he remembers exactly as he left them? How could he know whether or not they were disturbed and set back in their proper position? This only leads to supposition, since there's no further explanation, but it left me with the theory that Montresor has made more than one trip down into his family's catacombs to insure his secret crime is still secret.
The piece is told in the past tense, presumably from fifty years in the future with his recollection still perfect, which gives me the impression that he's gone over the events in his mind enough times to keep it safe against the ravages of age. The tone of the piece is also strange. It begins confidently, righteously, with “The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as best I could; but when he ventured upon insult, I swore revenge.” The tone seems to say “Fortunato had it coming.” Perhaps the piece is actually happening as Montresor ventures down into the catacombs to inspect the wall that Fortunato's body is behind. If so, Montresor could be trying to convince the reader (or more than likely, himself) that he was justified in his actions. As the story progresses, and Fortunato grows nearer to his doom, we see no guilt or remorse in Fortunato, no attempt at apology, and learn that Montresor learned of the “insult” through hearsay. Montresor's certainty loses its strength. Even as Fortunato is being walled up, never does he apologize for his actions against Montresor either real or imagined, leaving me to wonder if he committed them at all. Since we are seeing the story through the eyes of the murderer, I am left to wonder if Montresor is feeling the same uncertainty about killing that I am. I would have to imagine that if I committed a murder of a man that I was somewhat sure had it coming, I would probably spend the next fifty years second-guessing myself and hoping no one ever learned of my crime on the chance that I had been wrong.
After considering that, I have to think that maybe the final line is a twist. “In pace requiescat.” Rest in peace. Despite supposedly satisfying his family's honor, Montresor must live with the possibility that he murdered an innocent man. Unlike Fortunato, peaceful rest is something that Montresor will likely never have. Between the two of them, I'm left wondering who ended up with the rawer deal, and considering one of them was murdered, that's one hell of a twist.
