The Black Cat
Edgar Allen Poe
FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not — and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified — have tortured — have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror — to many they will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place — some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and, in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat..
The beginning of The Black Cat introduces readers to the narrator and his wife. He presents himself as docile and tender, and his wife as having “a disposition not uncongenial with my own”. This proves itself to be a telling passage as it is the first mention of his wife’s submissive attitude. Why is this the trait our narrator chooses to illustrate his wife with? Why not personality traits like her kindness, or loving spirit? Our narrator’s own insecurities in his manhood make him want to point out that even he, a “docile” and “tender-hearted” man, can find someone to listen to him and be submissive.
This idea is supported by Ann Bliss in her article Household Horror: Domestic Masculinity in Poe’s The Black Cat. Bliss argues that because of the narrator’s own insecurities, he tries to portray himself as benign to mask any ways he may come off as feminine (Bliss, 47).
Additionally, Roberta Reeder’s “The Black Cat” as a study in repression, offers another unique perspective on the narrator and his behavior. Reeder explores the narrator’s docility and self-identification as tender in terms of emotional repression. Additionally, in the introductory paragraph, the narrator tries to minimize the horror of the story and the actions he committed. He implies that the events only torture him, but from the perspective of everyone reading, they may seem little more than commonplace, everyday events. This sequence of thought alludes to the repression of events as well, as the narrator simply attributes the events as being normal, as if to soothe his conscience and allow him to forget or minimize his own actions.
When understanding these two perspectives together, it becomes glaringly obvious that we are being introduced to an emotionally unintelligent narrator who seeks to highlight any traits that may make him seem more masculine while simultaneously minimizing the nature of the actions that he has perpetrated.
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point — and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.
Pluto — this was the cat’s name — was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets.
Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament and character — through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance — had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me — for what disease is like Alcohol! — and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish — even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.
Referring back to the idea of submissiveness discussed earlier, the submissive and agreeable attitude of the narrator’s wife is seen here, as he speaks so flagrantly about abusing her but actively works to try to restrain himself from abusing his cat. Additionally, the cat receiving a name, Pluto, seems to indicate to readers that he may hold a higher status to the narrator over his own wife.
Examining this section using the approach of Reeder and her ideas about repression, the name Pluto and the cat’s black coat seem to hold significance, as Reeder points out that – literally – Pluto is a mysterious planet, far away and dark. She compares this to the narrator’s own emotional intelligence as it often shown that he is in the dark about his own emotions, without a proper or thorough understanding of them. As Reeder suggests, it seems as though he is repressing his complex emoutions and seeking solace in alcohol and those whom he can control (Reeder, 20).
In addition to these ideas, it is possible when reading this passage through the lens of Ann Bliss and her ideas on domesticity, that the narrator’s own relationship with the cat disturbed him because he found himself being followed by it, and growing a strong fondness for it. Aligning these events with the scope of Bliss’ concepts, it seems the narrator may have begun to feel embarrassment for being so close to Pluto. The literal manifestation of being followed around by the cat, a feminine creature, may have also been symbolic of how femininity has followed him throughout his life, and was simply too much for him. In order to abolish this reminder of his own feminine traits, he began to abuse the animal he once adored.
Once again, the combination of these ideas is very complimentary, as the narrator feels that the cat is a reminder of his femininity, and instead of reckoning with his emotions, he suppresses them, and tries to physically remove any reminder of his woes. This leads him to abusing his wife, animals, and eventually Pluto.
One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning — when I had slept off the fumes of the night’s debauch — I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart — one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself — to offer violence to its own nature — to do wrong for the wrong’s sake only — that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; — hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; — hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; — hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin — a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it — if such a thing were possible — even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts — and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire — a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words “strange!” “singular!” and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal’s neck.
Pluto’s return is significant because he is mocking the narrator, reminding him of the terrible sin he has committed. Once again, Pluto is serving as a vehicle for repressed emotions, but instead of concerns about femininity, the newly reincarnated Pluto is now forcing our narrator to reckon with what he has done instead of allowing him to repress and forget the sins he has perpetrated.
Taking a slightly different angle, this is also the first symbol readers see to support the narrative that The Black Cat is a tale of feminine rage. Feminine rage is a trait or behavior that explores pent-up female emotions, typically resulting from systemic generational trauma and oppression placed on or against women. Commonly, the expression of this rage is quiet, seething, and swift. A sweet revenge for what culminates from hundreds of years of abuse.
The cat, when examined as a symbol of feminine rage returned after its initial murder, but this time with a physical reminder of what was done to it. This reincarnated version of Pluto is making sure the narrator doesn’t repress or allow himself to forget what he has done through a physical reminder of a noose’s impression around its neck. Within the function of feminine rage, this is a pertinent moment, as the cat makes an unassuming return, a seeming warning of what is to come for the narrator if he doesn’t stop harming those around him.
When I first beheld this apparition — for I could scarcely regard it as less — my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd — by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.
Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place.
One night as I sat, half stupified, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat — a very large one — fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast.
Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to it — knew nothing of it — had never seen it before.
I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with my wife.
For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but —I know not how or why it was — its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually — very gradually — I came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.
What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.
With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly — let me confess it at once — by absolute dread of the beast.
This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil — and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own — yes, even in this felon’s cell, I am almost ashamed to own — that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimæras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees — degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as fanciful — it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name — and for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of the monster had I dared — it was now, I say, the image of a hideous — of a ghastly thing — of the GALLOWS! — oh, mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime — of Agony and of Death!
And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a brute beast — whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed — a brute beast to work out for me — for me a man, fashioned in the image of the High God — so much of insufferable wo! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast weight — an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off — incumbent eternally upon my heart!
Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates — the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.
One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in my wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.
This is the only time in this tale that the wife is somewhat disobedient, stopping the blow to the cat, and taking it herself. But again, the narrator can’t help but display her submissiveness, almost as some kind of trophy, “She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan”. Noting the way she “took” her death, falling without as much as making a sound alludes that she may have been expecting this kind of outcome, and was willing to “take it” like she had always taken his outbursts and violent behavior.
Looking deeper at the actions of the narrator is important here, as he intended on murdering his cat, but seemed just as satisfied when he murdered his own wife. He was not horrified by his actions, nor did he pursue the cat any further after his wife’s death. Once again, this may be the narrator trying to display a sense of masculinity, but to a toxic extent. By not showing emotion or regret over the death of his wife by his own hand, he may feel that it makes him look “tougher”. Again, we also see themes of repression here, as, if the narrator is truly as tender-hearted as he has made himself out to be, he would likely have shared some emotion regarding the murder he committed. Repression of these thoughts allowed him to consider his actions as so matter-of-fact.
This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the yard — about packing it in a box, as if merchandize, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar — as the monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.
For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to resemble the rest of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious.
And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the new brick-work. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to myself — “Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain.”
My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment, there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger, and forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night — and thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul!
The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a freeman. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted — but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured.
Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.
“Gentlemen,” I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, “I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this — this is a very well constructed house.” In the rabid desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all. — “I may say an excellently well constructed house. These walls — are you going, gentlemen? — these walls are solidly put together;”and here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.
But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! — by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman — a howl — a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the damned in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.
Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next, a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!
Feeling confident in his ability to conceal the crime with fine craftsmanship, the narrator felt he got away with his wrongdoings, going so far as to lead authorities to the exact area, just to show them how well he did in concealing the body. He needed a sick validation that he got away with it. The method of hiding his wife’s body was signifigant, as he walled her up, just as he does with his own emotions. Additionally, because of the narrators own insecurity with his masculinity and the “walls” he built around himself, he lashed out at those he felt contributed. Even when he thought he incapacitated Pluto, something he felt to be a source of his own feeling of inadequacy, it came back to make him feel weak and feminine. Even drinking couldn’t hinder his feminine traits and insecurity in his masculinity, so he desired to kill. When he killed his wife, he thought building that wall and concealing her made him masculine and cunning, but once again, the cat came to foil his plans.
This is where the true spirit of feminine rage comes in, as the cat makes its appearance in such a grand way. When the narrator became overly confident, even arrogant, about the concealment of the body, the cat exposed his filthy deeds. This is a very interesting aspect of the story, as the cat was not walled in with the woman initially. Its appearance alludes to the idea that the woman and the cat are one in some way. While they are unable to fight back or disagree with the narrator’s violence throughout the story, the woman and the cat are able to work in tandem to get justice for their maltreatment. The woman spared the cat’s life, sacrificing her own. In return, the cat used its voice in order to demand revenge for the unnamed woman. In addition to the woman and the cat being one solitary unit representative of femininity, they serve to demasculinize the narrator and show the community his dirty secrets and personal failures. This truly embodies the spirit of feminine rage because the cat not only got revenge for itself but for his wife. It did so in such a calculated manner, letting the narrator think that he was just about to get away with it. But with the call of the cat’s voice, it all came crashing down…. literally.
Main Text:
Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore – Works – Tales – the Black Cat (Text-03b). www.eapoe.org/works/tales/blcatb.htm.
Scholarly Sources:
Bliss, Ann V. “Household Horror: Domestic Masculinity in Poe’s the Black Cat.” The Explicator, vol. 67, no. 2, Jan. 2009, pp. 96–99. https://doi.org/10.3200/expl.67.2.96-99.
Image Source:
Asmakar. “Vector Drawing of a Small Domestic Cat.” iStock, 24 Oct. 2017, www.istockphoto.com/vector/sketch-of-a-black-kitten-gm865815306-143838957.
“The October Country: Oct. 20th: ‘The Black Cat’ by Edgar Allan Poe.” The Black Cat Moan, 17 Nov. 2022, tylermillerwrites.com/2015/10/20/the-october-country-oct-20th-the-black-cat-by-edgar-allan-poe.