Edgar by the black cat read. Black cat

15.03.2020 -

Edgar Allan Poe

BLACK CAT

From childhood I was distinguished by obedience and meekness of disposition. The tenderness of my soul was shown so openly that my peers even teased me about it. I especially loved various animals, and my parents did not prevent me from keeping pets. I spent every free minute with them and was at the height of bliss when I could feed and caress them. Over the years this characteristic of my character developed, and as I grew up, few things in life could give me more pleasure. Anyone who has felt affection for a faithful and intelligent dog has no need to explain with what ardent gratitude she pays for it. There is something in the unselfish and selfless love of the beast that conquers the heart of anyone who has more than once experienced the treacherous friendship and deceptive devotion characteristic of Man.

I got married early and, fortunately, discovered in my wife inclinations close to mine. Seeing my passion for pets, she never missed an opportunity to please me. We had birds, goldfish, a purebred dog, rabbits, a monkey and a cat.

The cat, unusually large, beautiful and completely black, without a single spot, was distinguished by a rare intelligence. When talking about his intelligence, my wife, who is no stranger to superstition at heart, often hinted at an old folk superstition according to which all black cats were considered werewolves. She didn’t hint seriously, of course - and I bring this detail up solely so that now is the time to remember it.

Pluto - that was the cat's name - was my favorite, and I often played with him. I always fed him myself, and he followed me around when I was at home. He even tried to follow me out into the street, and it took me a lot of effort to discourage him from doing so.

Our friendship lasted for several years, and during this time my character and character - under the influence of the Devil's Temptation - changed sharply (I burn with shame admitting this) for the worse. Day by day I became gloomier, more irritable, and more indifferent to the feelings of others. I allowed myself to shout rudely at my wife. In the end, I even raised my hand to her. My pets, of course, also felt this change. I not only stopped paying attention to them, but even treated them badly. However, I still remained fairly respectful towards Pluto and did not allow myself to offend him, just as I shamelessly offended rabbits, a monkey and even a dog when they caressed me or accidentally came to hand. But the disease developed in me - and there is no disease more terrible than addiction to Alcohol! - and finally even Pluto, who had already grown old and became more capricious as a result - even Pluto began to suffer from my bad temper.

One night I returned very drunk from visiting one of my favorite pubs, and then it occurred to me that the cat was avoiding me. I caught him; Frightened by my rudeness, he, not very much, but still bit me on the hand until it bled. The demon of rage immediately possessed me. I was no longer in control of myself. My soul seemed to suddenly leave my body; and anger, fiercer than the devil, inflamed by the gin, instantly took over my entire being. I grabbed a penknife from my vest pocket, opened it, squeezed the poor cat's neck and cut out his eye without pity! I blush, I burn all over, I shudder, describing this monstrous crime.

The next morning, when sanity returned to me - when I slept off after a night of drinking and the wine fumes had dissipated - the dirty deed that lay on my conscience caused me remorse mixed with fear; but it was only a vague and ambiguous feeling that left no trace in my soul. I began to drink heavily again and soon drowned in wine the very memory of what I had done.

Meanwhile, the cat’s wound was gradually healing. True, the empty eye socket made a terrifying impression, but the pain apparently subsided. He was still pacing around the house, but, as expected, he ran in fear as soon as he saw me. My heart had not yet completely hardened, and at first I bitterly regretted that the creature, once so attached to me, now did not hide its hatred. But soon this feeling gave way to bitterness. And then, as if to top off my final destruction, the spirit of contradiction awakened in me. Philosophers ignore it. But I am convinced to the depths of my soul that the spirit of contradiction belongs to the eternal motivating principles in the human heart - to the inalienable, primordial abilities or feelings that determine the very nature of Man. Who hasn’t happened a hundred times to commit a bad or senseless act without any reason, just because it shouldn’t be done? And don’t we, contrary to common sense, constantly experience the temptation to break the Law just because it is prohibited? So, the spirit of contradiction awakened in me to complete my final destruction. This incomprehensible inclination of the soul to self-torture - to violence against its own nature, the inclination to do evil for the sake of evil - prompted me to complete the torture of the dumb creature. One morning I calmly threw a noose around the cat’s neck and hung him on a branch - I hung him, although tears flowed from my eyes and my heart was breaking with remorse - I hung him because I knew how he once loved me, because he felt , how unfairly I treat him, - I hung it, because I knew what sin I was committing - a mortal sin, dooming my immortal soul to such a terrible curse that it would be cast - if it were possible - into such depths where even mercy does not extend All-merciful and All-punishing Lord.

The night after this crime was committed, I was awakened by a cry: “Fire!” The curtains next to my bed were on fire. The whole house was on fire. My wife, servant and myself were nearly burned alive. I was completely ruined. The fire consumed all my property, and from then on despair became my lot.

I have enough firmness not to try to find cause and effect, to connect misfortune with my ruthless act. I only want to trace in detail the entire chain of events - and I do not intend to neglect a single, even dubious, link. The day after the fire I visited the ashes. All the steps, except one, collapsed. Only a rather thin internal partition in the middle of the house, to which the head of my bed adjoined, survived. Here the plaster completely resisted fire - I explained this by the fact that the wall had been plastered quite recently. A large crowd had gathered near her, many eyes intently and greedily peering at one place. Words: “Strange!”, “Amazing!” and all sorts of exclamations of the same kind aroused my curiosity. I came closer and saw on the whiter surface something like a bas-relief depicting a huge cat. The accuracy of the image truly seemed incomprehensible. There was a rope around the cat's neck.

At first this ghost - I simply cannot call it anything else - plunged me into horror and bewilderment. But, upon reflection, I calmed down somewhat. I remembered that I had hung the cat in the garden near the house. During the commotion caused by the fire, a crowd flooded the garden - someone cut the rope and threw the cat through the open window into my room. Perhaps this was his way of waking me up. When the walls collapsed, the ruins pressed the victim of my cruelty against the freshly plastered partition, and from the heat of the flame and the acrid fumes, the pattern that I saw was imprinted on it.

Although I calmed, if not my conscience, then at least my mind, by quickly explaining the amazing phenomenon that I had just described, it still left a deep impression on me. Long months I was haunted by the ghost of a cat; and then a vague feeling returned to my soul, outwardly, but only outwardly, similar to repentance. I even began to regret the loss and searched in the dirty dens, from which I now almost never crawled out, for a similar cat of the same breed that would replace my former favorite.

I do not hope or pretend that anyone will believe the most monstrous and at the same time the most ordinary story that I am about to tell. Only a madman could hope for this, since I cannot believe myself. But I’m not crazy - and all this is clearly not a dream. But tomorrow I will no longer be alive, and today I must ease my soul with repentance. My only intention is to clearly, briefly, without further ado, tell the world about some purely family events. In the end, these events brought me only horror - they tormented me, they destroyed me. And yet I will not look for clues. I suffered a lot of fear because of them - to many they will seem harmless than the most absurd fantasies. Then, perhaps, some smart person will find the simplest explanation for the ghost that destroyed me - such a person, with a mind that is colder, more logical and, most importantly, not as impressionable as mine, will see in circumstances that I cannot understand speak without awe, just a chain of logical causes and consequences.

Since childhood, I have been distinguished by obedience and meekness of disposition. The tenderness of my soul was shown so openly that my peers even teased me about it. I especially loved various animals, and my parents did not prevent me from keeping pets. I spent every free minute with them and was at the height of bliss when I could feed and caress them. Over the years this characteristic of my character developed, and as I grew up, few things in life could give me more pleasure. Anyone who has felt affection for a faithful and intelligent dog has no need to explain with what ardent gratitude she pays for it. There is something in the unselfish and selfless love of the beast that conquers the heart of anyone who has more than once experienced the treacherous friendship and deceptive devotion characteristic of Man.

The cat, unusually large, beautiful and completely black, without a single spot, was distinguished by a rare intelligence. When talking about his intelligence, my wife, who is no stranger to superstitions at heart, often hinted at an old folk superstition according to which all black cats were considered werewolves. She did not hint, of course, seriously - and I bring this detail only so that now is the time to remember it.

Our friendship lasted for several years, and during this time my character and character - under the influence of the Devil's Temptation - changed sharply (I burn with shame admitting this) for the worse. Day by day I became gloomier, more irritable, and more indifferent to the feelings of others. I allowed myself to shout rudely at my wife. In the end I even raised my hand to her. My pets, of course, also felt this change. I not only stopped paying attention to them, but even treated them badly. However, I still remained fairly respectful towards Pluto and did not allow myself to offend him, just as I shamelessly offended rabbits, a monkey and even a dog when they caressed me or accidentally came to hand. But the disease developed in me - and there is no disease more terrible than addiction to Alcohol! - and finally even Pluto, who had already grown old and became more capricious as a result - even Pluto began to suffer from my bad temper.

Meanwhile, the cat’s wound was gradually healing. True, the empty eye socket made a terrifying impression, but the pain apparently subsided. He was still pacing around the house, but, as expected, he ran in fear as soon as he saw me. My heart had not yet completely hardened, and at first I bitterly regretted that the creature who was once so attached to me now did not hide his hatred. But soon this feeling gave way to bitterness. And then, as if to top off my final destruction, the spirit of contradiction awakened in me. Philosophers ignore it. But I am convinced to the depths of my soul that the spirit of contradiction belongs to the eternal motivating principles in the human heart - to the inalienable, primordial abilities or feelings that determine the very nature of Man. Who hasn’t happened a hundred times to commit a bad or senseless act without any reason, just because it shouldn’t be done? And don’t we, contrary to common sense, constantly experience the temptation to break the Law just because it is prohibited? So, the spirit of contradiction awakened in me to complete my final destruction. This incomprehensible inclination of the soul to self-torture - to violence against its own nature, the inclination to do evil for the sake of evil - prompted me to complete the torture of the dumb creature. One morning I calmly threw a noose around the cat’s neck and hung him on a branch - I hung him, although tears flowed from my eyes and my heart was breaking with remorse - I hung him because I knew how he once loved me, because I felt how “I’m treating him unfairly,” I hanged it, because I knew what kind of sin I was committing - a mortal sin, dooming my immortal soul to such a terrible curse that it would be cast down - if it were possible - into such depths where even the mercy of the All-Good and All-punishing Lord.

I am strong enough not to try to find cause and effect, to connect misfortune with my ruthless act. I only want to trace in detail the entire chain of events - and I do not intend to neglect a single, even dubious, link. The day after the fire I visited the ashes. All the walls except one collapsed. Only a rather thin internal partition in the middle of the house, to which the head of my bed adjoined, survived. Here the plaster completely resisted fire - I explained this by the fact that the wall had been plastered quite recently. A large crowd had gathered near her, many eyes intently and greedily peering at one place. Words: “Strange!”, “Amazing!” and all sorts of exclamations of the same kind aroused my curiosity. I came closer and saw on the white surface something like a bas-relief depicting a huge cat. The accuracy of the image truly seemed incomprehensible. There was a rope around the cat's neck.

Although I calmed, if not my conscience, then at least my mind, by quickly explaining the amazing phenomenon that I had just described, it still left a deep impression on me. For many months I was haunted by the ghost of a cat; and then a vague feeling returned to my soul, outwardly, but only outwardly, similar to repentance. I even began to regret the loss and searched in the dirty dens, from which I now almost never crawled out, for a similar cat of the same breed that would replace my former favorite.

One night, when I was sitting, languishing in semi-oblivion, in some ungodly place, my attention was suddenly attracted by something black on one of the huge barrels of gin or rum, of which almost the entire furnishings of the establishment consisted. For several minutes I did not take my eyes off the barrel, wondering how I had not noticed such a strange thing until now. I walked up and touched her with my hand. It was a black cat, very large - to match Pluto - and like him like two peas in a pod, with only one difference. There was not a single white hair in Pluto's fur; and this cat turned out to be dirty White spot almost the entire chest.

When I touched him, he jumped up with a loud purr and rubbed himself against my hand, apparently very pleased with my attention. But I was just looking for such a cat. I immediately wanted to buy it; but the owner of the establishment refused the money - he did not know where this cat came from - he had never seen him before.

I petted the cat all the time, and when I got ready to go home, he clearly wanted to go with me. I didn't stop him; On the way, I sometimes bent down and stroked him. He quickly settled in at home and immediately became my wife’s favorite.

But I myself soon began to feel a growing dislike for him. I never expected this; however - I don’t know how and why this happened - his obvious love aroused in me only disgust and annoyance. Little by little, these feelings turned into bitter hatred. I avoided the cat at all costs; only vague shame and the memory of my previous crime kept me from taking revenge on him. Weeks passed, and I never hit him or laid a finger on him at all: but slowly - very slowly - an inexplicable disgust took possession of me, and I silently fled from the hateful creature like the plague.

I hated this cat all the more because, as it turned out on the very first morning, he, like Pluto, had lost one eye. However, this made it even more dear to my wife, because, as I have already said, she retained in her soul that gentleness that was once characteristic of me and served for me as an inexhaustible source of the simplest and purest pleasures.

But it seemed that the more my ill will grew, the more firmly the cat became attached to me. He followed me with a tenacity that is difficult to describe. As soon as I sat down, he would crawl under my chair or jump onto my lap, pestering me with his disgusting caresses. When I got up, intending to leave, he got under my feet, so that I almost fell, or, digging his sharp claws into my clothes, climbed onto my chest. At such moments I unbearably wanted to kill him on the spot, but I was held back to some extent by the consciousness of my previous guilt, and most importantly - I will not hide it - by fear of this creature.

In essence, it was not fear of any specific misfortune, but I find it difficult to define this feeling in another word. I am ashamed to admit - even now, behind bars, I am ashamed to admit - that the monstrous horror that the cat instilled in me was aggravated by the most unimaginable obsession. My wife more than once pointed out to me the whitish spot, which I have already mentioned, the only thing that outwardly distinguished this strange creature from my victim. The reader probably remembers that the spot was quite large, but at first very vague; but slowly - barely perceptible, so my mind for a long time rebelled against such obvious absurdity - it finally acquired inexorably clear outlines. I cannot name without trembling what it now represented - because of this, I mainly felt disgust and fear and would have gotten rid of the damned monster if I had only dared - from now on, let it be known to you, it showed something vile to my gaze - something sinister - a gallows! - this is a bloody and formidable weapon of Horror and Villainy - Suffering and Destruction!

Now I was truly the most unfortunate of mortals. A despicable creature, similar to the one that I finished off without batting an eyelid - this despicable creature caused me - me, a person created in the image and likeness of the Almighty - so much unbearable suffering! Alas! Day and night I have never known more blessed peace! During the day, the cat never left my side for a moment, but at night I woke up every hour from painful dreams and felt the hot breath of this creature on my face and its unbearable heaviness - a nightmare in the flesh, which I was unable to shake off - until the end of days that has fallen upon my heart!

These sufferings drove out the last remnants of good feelings from my soul. I now cherished only evil thoughts - the blackest and most evil thoughts that could come into my head. My usual gloominess grew into hatred of all things and the entire human race; and it was my uncomplaining and long-suffering wife who suffered most from the sudden, frequent and uncontrollable outbursts of rage to which I blindly indulged.

One day, for some household need, she and I went down to the basement of an old house in which poverty forced us to live. The cat followed me up the steep stairs, I stumbled, almost broke my neck and went crazy with rage. I grabbed an ax and, forgetting in my anger the abject fear that had stopped me until then, was ready to strike such a blow at the cat that I would have killed him on the spot. But my wife held my hand. In a rage that pales before the rage of the devil himself, I broke free and split her head with an axe. She fell without a single groan.

Having committed this monstrous murder, I, with complete composure, began to look for a way to hide the corpse. I understood that I could not take him out of the house during the day or even under the cover of night without the risk that the neighbors would see it. Many different ideas came to my mind. At first I wanted to chop the body into small pieces and burn it in the oven. Then he decided to bury it in the basement. Then I thought that it would be better, perhaps, to throw it into the well in the yard - or put it in a box, hire a porter and order it to be carried out of the house. Finally, I chose what seemed to me to be the best path. I decided to wall up the corpse in the wall, just as medieval monks once walled up their victims.

The basement was perfect for this purpose. The masonry of the walls was fragile; moreover, they had been hastily plastered not so long ago, and due to dampness the plaster had not yet dried. Moreover, one wall had a ledge in which, for decoration, a semblance of a fireplace or hearth was built, later covered with bricks and also plastered. I had no doubt that I could easily remove the bricks, hide the corpse there and seal the hole again so that the most trained eye would detect nothing suspicious.

I made no mistake in my calculations. Taking a crowbar, I easily turned out the bricks, stood the corpse upright, leaning it against interior wall, and easily put the bricks in place. With all possible precautions, I obtained lime, sand and tow, prepared plaster, completely indistinguishable from the previous one, and carefully covered the new masonry. Having finished this, I made sure that everything was in in perfect order. It was as if no one had touched the wall. I cleaned up every last crumb of trash from the floor. Then he looked around in triumph and said to himself:

This time, at least, my labors were not in vain.

After that I began to look for the creature, former cause so many misfortunes; Now I have finally made up my mind to kill her. If I had caught a cat at that time, its fate would have been decided; but the cunning beast, apparently frightened by my recent rage, disappeared, as if it had sunk into water. It is impossible to describe or even imagine how deep and blissful a feeling of relief filled my chest as soon as the hated cat disappeared. He didn't show up all night; it was the first night since he appeared in the house that I slept soundly and restful sleep; Yes, I slept, although the burden of crime lay on my soul.

The second day passed, then the third, and still there was no sign of my tormentor. I was breathing freely again. The monster fled from the house in fear forever! I won't see him again! What bliss! I didn’t even think about repenting for what I had done. A short inquiry was conducted, but it was not difficult for me to justify myself. They even did a search, but, of course, they found nothing. I had no doubt that from now on I would be happy.

On the fourth day after the murder, the police unexpectedly came to see me and again conducted a thorough search of the house. However, I was sure that the hiding place could not be discovered, and I felt calm. The police ordered me to be present during the search. They searched every nook and cranny. Finally they went down to the basement for the third or fourth time. I didn't raise an eyebrow. My heart beat so smoothly, as if I was sleeping the sleep of a righteous man. I walked around the entire basement. I crossed my arms over my chest and walked leisurely back and forth. The police did their job and got ready to leave. My heart rejoiced and I could not contain myself. To complete the triumph, I longed to say at least a word and finally convince them of my innocence.

Gentlemen,” I finally said as they were already climbing the stairs, “I am happy that I have dispelled your suspicions.” I wish you all good health and a little more civility. By the way, gentlemen, this... this is a very good building (in my frantic desire to speak casually, I was barely aware of my words), I would even say that the building is simply excellent. In laying these walls - are you in a hurry, gentlemen? - there is not a single crack. - And then, reveling in my reckless prowess, I began to pound with a cane, which I was holding in my hand, on the very bricks where the corpse of my missus was walled up.

Lord God, save and protect me from the claws of Satan! As soon as the echoes of these blows had ceased, a voice from the grave responded to me!.. The cry, at first muffled and intermittent, like a child’s cry, quickly turned into an incessant, loud, drawn-out cry, wild and inhuman, - into an animal howl, into a heartbreaking groan, which expressed horror mixed with triumph, and could only come from hell, where all those doomed to eternal torment cry out and the devils rejoice angrily.

Needless to say, what crazy thoughts came into my head. Almost fainting, I recoiled towards the opposite wall. For a moment, the police stood motionless on the stairs, chained with horror and surprise. But immediately a dozen strong hands began to break open the wall. She immediately collapsed. The corpse of my wife, already touched by decay and stained with dried blood, appeared before my eyes. On her head, with an open red mouth and a sparkling single eye, sat a vile creature, which insidiously pushed me to kill, and now betrayed me with its howl and doomed me to death at the hands of the executioner. I walled up this monster in a stone grave.

The Black Cat

1843

I do not expect or seek for anyone to believe my story, highest degree strange, but at the same time very simple. Yes, I'd be crazy to expect this; my own feelings refuse to believe themselves. But tomorrow I will die, and I want to relieve my soul. My immediate goal is to tell the world - simply, briefly and without interpretation - a series of simple domestic events. These events, in their consequences, horrified, tormented and finally destroyed me. But I will not attempt to explain them. For me they represented almost nothing other than horror, but for many they would not seem scary at all. Perhaps later there will be some mind that is calmer, more logical and much less prone to excitement than mine. He will reduce my ghosts to the level of the most ordinary thing, and in circumstances which I cannot speak of without horror, will see nothing more than the ordinary result of very natural actions and causes.

Since childhood, I have been distinguished by my pliability and humane character. The tenderness of my heart went so far as to make me the subject of ridicule from my comrades. I especially loved animals, and my parents gave me a lot of them. I spent most of my time with them, and the greatest happiness for me was feeding and caressing them. This feature of my character grew with me and in the years of courage served as one of the main sources of pleasure for me. The quality and strength of pleasure resulting from such causes hardly needs to be explained to those who have ever had a tender affection for a faithful and intelligent dog. There is something in the unselfish and selfless love of an animal that acts directly on the heart of the one who has frequent cases observe the pitiful friendship and the fly-like loyalty of a person.

I married early and was very glad to find in my wife inclinations similar to my own. Noticing my passion for pets, she acquired them at every opportunity, choosing the best ones. We had birds, goldfish, a great dog, rabbits, a small monkey and a cat.

This cat was unusually large and beautiful - a completely black cat - and he was intelligent to an amazing degree. Speaking of his intelligence, my somewhat superstitious wife often mentioned the ancient popular belief According to which all black cats are turned witches. However, she said this as a joke, and I mention this circumstance only because it came to my mind just now.

Pluto - that was the cat's name - was my absolute favorite. No one fed him except me, and he accompanied me everywhere in the house. It even took me a lot of effort to drive him away when he had the fantasy of accompanying me through the streets.

Our friendship continued in this way for several years, during which my inclinations and character, as a result of an intemperate life (I am ashamed to admit it), suffered a radical change for the worse. Every day I became more gloomy, more irritable, and more inattentive to the feelings of others. I allowed myself to speak insolently to my wife, and finally even attempted violent acts against her. Of course, my favorites must have felt the change that had taken place in me. Not only did I not pay attention to them, but I also treated them badly. However, I still retained some respect for Pluto. It kept me from mistreating him, while I did not at all stand on ceremony with rabbits, a monkey and a dog when they came to my hand by chance or out of affection for me. My illness was getting worse, and what other illness can compare with drunkenness? Finally, even Pluto, who himself was beginning to grow old and, therefore, become somewhat grumpy, began to experience the consequences of my bad mood.

One night, when I returned home very drunk from one of the dens I frequented, I imagined that the cat was avoiding my presence. I grabbed it. In fright, he bit my hand, and I was suddenly overcome by demonic rage. I no longer remembered myself. It seemed as if the old soul had suddenly left my body, and every fiber in me trembled with the devilish malice incited by the gin. I took a penknife from my vest pocket, opened it, grabbed the unfortunate animal by the throat and slowly cut out one of its eyes! I blush, burn and tremble when talking about this terrible cruelty...

When, with the onset of morning, reason returned to me, when a long sleep drove away the fumes of the night's drinking, I remembered the crime I had committed and felt partly horror, partly remorse. But it was a weak and ambiguous feeling; the soul remained untouched. I again indulged in excess and soon drowned in wine every memory of my action.

Meanwhile, the cat gradually recovered. True, the socket of the cut out eye was a terrible sight, but Pluto apparently no longer felt any pain. He walked around the house as before, only - as should have been expected - he ran away in terrible fright at my approach. There were still so many of my former properties left in me that at first I was upset by this obvious disgust towards me on the part of the animal that was once so attached to me. But soon this feeling gave way to irritation. Then, to my final and irrevocable death, the spirit of perseverance was born in me. Philosophy says nothing about this tendency. But I am convinced, as convinced as, for example, in the existence of the soul, that perseverance is one of the original impulses of the human heart, one of the inseparable, fundamental abilities or feelings that give direction to a person’s character. Who hasn't done something base or stupid for the sole reason that he shouldn't have done it? Isn’t there a constant passion in us - despite the arguments common sense, break the law solely because it is the law? The spirit of perseverance, I say, appeared in me for my final destruction. This incomprehensible desire of the soul to torment itself, to rape its own nature, to do evil for the sake of evil, prompted me to continue and finally complete my cruelty to an innocent animal. One morning I coldly threw a noose around his neck and hung him from a tree. I hung it up - despite the fact that tears were flowing from my eyes; hanged me - because I knew his former love for me and felt that he had not given me the slightest reason for cruelty; hanged - because I recognized in my act a sin, casting my immortal soul into that abyss, to which, if only possible, infinite goodness does not reach.

At night, after this day, I was awakened from sleep by a cry: fire! The curtains of my bed were on fire. The whole house was on fire. The wife, the maid and I saved our lives with great difficulty. The ruin was complete. All my property was burned, and I gave in to despair.

I will not be so weak as to necessarily look for a connection between effect and cause, between misfortune and a cruel act. But I represent a chain of facts and I do not want to leave not a single, not even the smallest link of this chain unfinished. In the afternoon, after the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls all almost collapsed. There was only one internal wall, blocking the house in the middle, a thin wall, to which the head of my bed usually adjoined. The plaster must have offered considerable resistance to the action of fire, a fact which I attributed to the fact that the wall had recently been re-plastered. A dense crowd of people had gathered near this wall and many, apparently, were looking at some kind of special part her with very inquisitive and close attention. The words are “strange!” “extraordinary!” and others like them caught my attention. I approached and saw the figure of a huge cat, as if sculpted in the form of a bas-relief on the white surface of the wall. The print was amazingly clear. There was a rope around the animal's neck.

When I first looked at this ghost (I could hardly then consider it anything else), my surprise, my horror were excessive. But finally, reflection came to my aid. I remembered that the cat was hanged in the garden adjacent to the house. Alarmed by the fire, the crowd immediately filled the garden; Someone must have taken the cat from the tree and thrown it through the window into my room. This was probably done to wake me up. Other walls, falling, crushed the victim of my cruelty to the new plaster, the lime of which, combined with fire and ammonia coming out of the corpse, produced the portrait as it was before my eyes.

Although I thus soon gave an account to my mind, if not to my conscience, of the astonishing fact I have just told, it nevertheless made a deep impression on my imagination. For months I could not get rid of the ghost that haunted me. At the same time, that half-feeling again appeared in my soul, which had the appearance of remorse, but was not it in reality. I even regretted the loss of the animal and in the vile dens that I usually visited, I looked for another cat, somewhat similar to the previous one, to make up for this deficiency.

One night, as I sat half-conscious in the midst of a most disgraceful tavern, my attention was suddenly attracted by something black curled up on one of the huge barrels of gin or rum that formed the main furniture of the room. For several minutes I gazed intently at the top of this barrel, wondering how I had not noticed a black object lying on it before. I walked up to him and touched him with my hand. It was a black cat, very large, exactly the same size as Pluto, and very similar to him in everything, except for one thing. Namely, Pluto was black all over, from head to toe, and this cat had a wide, although vaguely defined white spot that covered almost his entire chest.

When I touched him, he purred loudly, began to rub against my hand, and seemed very pleased with my attention. This is exactly the kind of animal I was looking for. I immediately decided to buy the cat and offered money to the owner of the establishment, but the owner had no claims to him, did not know where he came from, and had never seen him before.

I continued to caress the cat and when I began to get ready to go home, he showed a desire to follow me. I didn’t drive him away and on the way sometimes I leaned over and stroked his back. He soon got used to the house and became my wife's great favorite.

As for me, I soon felt a disgust for him arising in my soul. I did not expect this feeling at all, but I don’t know how or why, his obvious affection for me was disgusting and bothered me. Little by little, disgust turned into bitterness and hatred. I avoided the animal, some feeling of shame and the memory of my previous cruelty kept me from causing him physical pain. For several weeks I did not beat him or do anything violent to him; but gradually, little by little, I began to look at him with inexpressible disgust and silently walked away from his hated presence, as if from the breath of the plague.

Without a doubt, the intensification of my hatred for the animal was greatly enhanced by the discovery I made on the morning after I brought him to my home: like Pluto, he was missing one eye. This circumstance was the reason that my wife fell in love with him even more. She, as I have already said, possessed to a high degree that humanity of feeling that was once distinctive feature my character and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.

It is strange that along with my disgust for the cat, his attachment to me seemed to intensify. He followed me on my heels with a tenacity about which it is difficult to give the reader a proper understanding. Wherever I sit, he will crawl under my chair, or jump onto my lap, boring me with his disgusting caresses. When I got up to walk around the room, he twirled under my feet, so that I almost fell, or, clinging to my dress with his sharp claws, he climbed onto my chest. At such moments I strongly wanted to kill him with one blow, but was restrained from doing so partly by the memory of my previous crime, and most of all (I confess this at once) by the decisive fear that I felt for the cat.

It was not a fear of actual physical evil, and yet I would not have been able to define it in any other way. I am almost ashamed to admit - yes, even here in prison I am ashamed to admit - that the horror and disgust that the animal inspired in me was intensified by one of the most empty chimeras imaginable. My wife more than once drew my attention to the white mark that I spoke of, which constituted the only visible difference between this cat and Pluto. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, was initially very vague: little by little, almost imperceptibly, it acquired a sharp clarity of outline. For a long time my mind tried to reject this circumstance as an empty play of the imagination. The mark now had the appearance of an object whose name I shudder to pronounce... And mainly for this reason I hated the cat, was afraid of him and would, if only I dared, want to get rid of the monster. I saw in its white spot the image of a disgusting, terrible thing - a gallows! - a sad and formidable instrument of horror and crime, agony and death!

From then on, I became a truly pitiful creature, more pitiful than is typical for a person. An unreasonable animal, the like of which I killed with such contempt - an unreasonable animal was the cause of unbearable torture for me, for a man created in the image of God! Alas! neither day nor night I knew more peace. During the day the cat did not leave me for a minute, and at night I constantly jumped up, frightened by inexpressibly terrible dreams. And when I woke up, I felt the hot breath of this creature on my face and its oppressive weight - the embodiment of the brownie, which I did not have the strength to throw off - forever lying on my heart!

The weak remnant of goodness in my soul could not withstand such torture. The most evil, the darkest thoughts became my only inseparable comrades. The usual gloominess of my disposition intensified and turned into hatred of all things and all humanity; my wife, who endured everything without complaint, suffered more often than anyone else from sudden, incessant and uncontrollable outbursts of rage, to which I now blindly indulged...

One day she went with me to get something needed around the house into the cellar of an old house in which we were forced to live due to poverty. The cat followed me down the stairs. He almost knocked me over and it made me crazy. Raising the ax and forgetting in my rage the childish fear that had hitherto held me back, I directed a blow at the animal, which would undoubtedly have been fatal to it if it had hit where I aimed. This blow was stopped by my wife's hand. Irritated by this intercession, which brought me more than a devilish rage, I snatched my hand from her and cut off her skull with an ax. She fell dead on the spot, without uttering a single groan.

Having committed this heinous murder, I immediately, but in complete cold blood, set about concealing the body. I knew that I could not take him out of the house, day or night, without the risk of being noticed by the neighbors. Many plans came into my head. At first I thought of cutting the corpse into small pieces and burning them; then he decided to dig a grave for him in the cellar; then he began to ponder whether he should throw it into the well in the yard, or whether he should put it in a box like some kind of goods and, having made the usual orders, call a porter to take it out of the house. Finally I came across an idea that seemed better than all these plans. I decided to wall up the corpse in the cellar wall, as they say the monks of the Middle Ages walled up the people who became their victims.

The cellar was well adapted for such a purpose. Its walls were weakly built and recently covered with rough plaster, not yet hardened by the dampness of the air. Moreover, in one of the walls there was a ledge formed by a false fireplace, which was laid and brought under general form the remaining parts of the cellar. I had no doubt that I could easily take out the bricks in this place, put the corpse there and seal it all up as before, so that no eye would be able to notice anything suspicious.

I was not deceived in my calculations. Using a crowbar, I easily knocked out the bricks and, carefully leaning the corpse against the inner wall of the fireplace, propped it up to keep it in that position; then I easily put everything back in order. Having taken out with all possible precautions lime mortar, sand and wool, I made a plaster that could not be distinguished from the previous one, and covered the bricks with it. Having completed this work, I was very pleased that everything was now in proper order. The wall did not show the slightest sign of any changes or alterations. I carefully picked up the trash on the floor. I looked around triumphantly and said to myself: “at least here my work was not in vain.”

Then my first task was to look for the cat, the cause of this terrible misfortune; because I finally made up my mind to kill him. If I had caught him at that moment, his fate would have been decided. But the cunning animal, apparently, was frightened by the strength of my anger and did not show itself to my eyes in such a mood. It is impossible to describe or imagine the deep, blessed feeling of relief that I experienced due to the absence of this hated creature. The cat did not show himself all night, and so for at least one night since I brought him into the house I slept soundly and peacefully. Yes, I slept, despite the murder that lay on my soul!

Two more days passed without my tormentor showing up. I breathed freely again. The monster has left my home forever! I won't see him anymore. That's what I thought and I was extremely happy! My crime worried me little. Several interrogations were made to me, but I answered them without difficulty. An investigation was even ordered, but nothing was discovered. I considered myself completely safe.

On the fourth day after the murder, several police officers unexpectedly appeared at the house and again began a strict search on the spot. But being sure of the impossibility of discovering where the corpse was hidden, I did not feel the slightest confusion. The police ordered me to accompany them in their searches. They left no corner or cranny unexplored. Finally, for the third and fourth time, they went down to the cellar. Not a single muscle of mine trembled. My heart beat calmly, like that of a person sleeping in the sleep of innocence. With my arms folded across my chest, I calmly walked back and forth through the cellar, from one end to the other. The police were completely satisfied and wanted to leave. The joy of my heart was too strong and I could not stand it. I was burning with the desire to say just one triumphant word and thereby deepen their confidence in my innocence.

“Gentlemen,” I finally said, as the police began to climb the steps of the stairs, I wish you every health and a little more politeness. Let me say in passing, gentlemen, this is a very well built house. (In my frantic desire to say something in a casual tone, I hardly knew what I was saying). Yes, I can say this is a superbly built house. These walls... are you leaving? These walls are built very solidly. “Here, just out of some crazy youth, I knocked hard with the cane that was in my hands on exactly that part of the wall behind which the corpse of my victim stood...

May God protect and preserve me from the clutches of Satan! As soon as the echoes of my blows fell silent, a voice answered them from the grave! It was a cry at first muffled and intermittent, similar to the sobbing of a child, then it turned into a long, loud and continuous cry that was completely inhuman and out of the ordinary. ordinary sounds, - into a howl, a plaintive, piercing screech, in which one could hear partly horror, partly triumph. In a word: it was a sound that could only come from hell, a sound in which both the cries of sinners condemned to eternal torment and the cries of jubilant demons were combined.

It would be crazy to talk about what I felt at that moment. I almost fainted and, staggering, went to the opposite wall. For an instant, the police remained motionless on the stairs from extreme fear and horror. The next, a dozen strong hands were breaking down the fireplace wall. She fell. The spectators saw a corpse, already badly deteriorated and covered with dried blood, standing in an upright position opposite them. On his head, with his red mouth open and his single fiery eye bulging, sat a vile animal, whose cunning led me to murder, and whose accusatory cry betrayed me to the executioner. I buried the monster along with my wife's corpse!

Black cat

I do not expect or seek that anyone will believe my story, which is extremely strange, but at the same time very simple. Yes, I'd be crazy to expect this; my own feelings refuse to believe themselves. But tomorrow I will die, and I want to relieve my soul. My immediate goal is to tell the world - simply, briefly and without interpretation - a series of simple domestic events. These events, in their consequences, horrified, tormented and finally destroyed me. But I will not attempt to explain them. For me they represented almost nothing other than horror, but for many they would not seem scary at all. Perhaps later there will be some mind that is calmer, more logical and much less prone to excitement than mine. He will reduce my ghosts to the level of the most ordinary thing, and in circumstances which I cannot speak of without horror, will see nothing more than the ordinary result of very natural actions and causes.

Since childhood, I have been distinguished by my pliability and humane character. The tenderness of my heart went so far as to make me the subject of ridicule from my comrades. I especially loved animals, and my parents gave me a lot of them. I spent most of my time with them, and the greatest happiness for me was feeding and caressing them. This feature of my character grew with me and in the years of courage served as one of the main sources of pleasure for me. The quality and strength of pleasure resulting from such causes hardly needs to be explained to those who have ever had a tender affection for a faithful and intelligent dog. There is something in the unselfish and selfless love of an animal that acts directly on the heart of one who has had frequent occasions to observe the pitiful friendship and fly-like loyalty of a person.

This cat was unusually large and beautiful - a completely black cat - and he was intelligent to an amazing degree. Speaking about his intelligence, my somewhat superstitious wife often mentioned the old folk belief that all black cats are turned witches. However, she said this as a joke, and I mention this circumstance only because it came to my mind just now.

The third volume of works by classics of the detective genre includes short stories by Edgar Allan Poe and Gilbert Keith Chesterton, which have become recognized masterpieces of world literature.

These selected works of writers who are so different in their creative manner and characteristic features personal worldview, at the same time quite organically complement each other, presenting a holistic picture of a multi-level, multifaceted world, full of bright contrasts and secrets, sometimes very ominous, but invariably exciting the imagination and captivating inquisitive minds, definitely in the spirit of both Edgar Allan Poe and Gilbert Chesterton, despite to their apparent polarity. However, as you know, the poles gravitate towards each other...

Edgar Allan Poe was born on January 19, 1809 in Boston, into an acting family. Orphaned at the age of three, he was adopted by tobacco merchant John Allan, in whose house he lived until he came of age.

After graduating from school, he entered the University of Virginia, from where, after 8 months, he was expelled for neglecting the charter of this educational institution. Edgar Poe then served in the army for about two years, after which he became a cadet at the prestigious military school West Point. Soon, however, he was expelled from there “for systematic violation of discipline,” as the military court ordered.

The desire to ignore the standards of mass behavior was fully reflected in three poetry collections of the young Poe, which were published in the late 20s. In the poems of this period, one can clearly see the desire to write for oneself, specifically for oneself, a different, non-stereotypical life, to create a new, unprecedented and unthinkable, but still reality based on the deep principles of existence.

These poems, as one might expect, did not find recognition among the reading public, but nevertheless their author firmly decided to become a professional writer, earning his daily bread through magazine publications.

He became famous for his story “The Manuscript Found in a Bottle,” published in 1833 in the pages of the Southern Literary Messenger. Soon Edgar Allan Poe becomes the editor of this magazine.

The stories “Berenice”, “Morella”, “Ligeia”, “Eleanor”, in which the image of Virginia, the writer’s young wife, found a rather unique refraction, were especially characteristic of that period.

Critics noted in Poe’s work a symbiosis of wild imagination and irrefutable logic. “The Extraordinary Adventures of One Hans Pfaal” and “The Diary of Julius Rodman” are rightfully considered the debut works of science fiction.

The true peak of Edgar Allan Poe’s literary career in the early 40s was the famous novelistic trilogy: “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Mystery of Marie Roget” and “The Purloined Letter,” which marked the birth of the detective genre. This peak is crowned by the poem “The Raven,” which brought the author loud and well-deserved fame.

Poe’s works are largely imbued with an analysis of the nature of negative emotions, the subconscious and borderline states of the human psyche, as evidenced quite convincingly by the stories “The Demon of Contradiction” and “The Black Cat” presented in this volume.

The tendency towards this kind of analysis, which sometimes took on the character of an idea fix, had very serious consequences for the writer, who had a rather unstable psyche. After the death of his wife in 1847, a completely broken Edgar Poe fell into a severe alcohol addiction, made several suicide attempts and died in a city hospital on October 7, 1849.

Nine people followed his coffin.

Critics vied with each other to reproach this great writer for his passion for alcohol, for his isolation from ordinary, stereotypical life, and for many other sins, primarily that he did not write “for millions.”

What for? After all, even the ancient Hellenes noted that everything in common use has very little value, and the great Roman Seneca spoke even more harshly: “The approval of the crowd is proof of complete inconsistency.” This is confirmed by the entire history of mankind, including the history of literature.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton was born on May 29, 1874 in London. After graduating from school in 1891, he studied at the Art School at University College.

At this time, Chesterton's first book of poems, “The Wild Knight,” was published, which, alas, was not crowned with the expected glory. True, quite soon fame of a different, rather scandalous kind was brought to the young writer by his harsh statements in the press regarding the immorality of the Anglo-Boer War, unleashed by Great Britain in 1899.

The polemical nature that contemporaries initially attributed to youthful maximalism became characteristic of all periods of Chesterton's work, as well as his famous paradoxes based on the collision of fantastic exoticism with common sense.

Chesterton entered world literature first of all, as a deep and original thinker who left behind a rich legacy, where brilliant works of literary criticism, portraits and biographies of saints, sociological studies, and works of fiction that have become recognized classics occupy a worthy place.

He became the first literary critic to subject the works of the detective genre to a professional analysis, as well as practically the first of the authors to give the detective story that degree of polemic and topicality, which before him could only be inherent in problematic articles in the press.

The writer's stories are a literary-figurative continuation of his journalism and philosophical essays, where the main problem is the blatant contradiction between the visible, ceremonial side of existence and its real essence, dirty and largely criminal. Thus, the efforts of the hero-detective are aimed primarily at eliminating this destructive contradiction and restoring the disturbed world harmony.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton was elected the first president of the British Detective Club, founded in 1928, and continued to serve in his duties until 1936, until his big and noble heart stopped beating.

V. Gitin, executive vice-president of the Detective and Historical Novel Association

Edgar Allan Poe

Cheating is an exact science

Goo-goo, the cats blew. What was yours is now mine!

Since the creation of the world there have been two Jeremiahs. One composed a jeremiad about usury, and his name was Jeremy Bentham. This man was much admired by Mr. John Neal, and in some ways he was great. The second gave the name to one of the most important exact sciences and was a great man in the literal sense, I would even say, in the most direct of senses.

What a deception is (or the abstract idea that the verb “to deceive” means) is, in general, clear to everyone. However, it is quite difficult to define the fact, act or process of deception as such. You can get a more or less satisfactory idea of this concept, defining not the deception itself, but a person as an animal who is engaged in deception. If Plato had thought of this, he would not have become the victim of the plucked chicken joke.

Plato was asked a very fair question: why, if he defines a person as “a two-legged creature devoid of feathers,” is a plucked chicken not a person? However, I am not going to look for answers to such questions now. Man is a creature that cheats, and there is no other animal that is capable of cheating. And even a whole chicken coop of selected chickens can’t do anything about it.

Edgar by the black cat read. Black cat

The Black Cat

1843

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