by Poe · Cluster: Mortality · Grave · Memento Mori
Abstract
Grotesque comic tale of a man who literally loses his breath, is mangled, hanged, entombed, and revived, parodying horror sensationalism.
Testo / Text
Parti / Parts
Readability (prose)55.2 Flesch ease10.7 FK grade14 Fog14% complex20.8 words/sent
Connections
Topoi: Sleeper Awakes Motifs: Death, Grave, Marriage, Inn Tavern Themes & Concepts: Grotesque, Terror and Horror, Satire of Society, Mortality, Identity Forms & Genres: Short Story, Parody
Testo integrale / Full text
O breathe not, etc.
—Moore’s _Melodies_
The most notorious ill-fortune must in the end yield to the
untiring courage of philosophy—as the most stubborn city to the
ceaseless vigilance of an enemy. Shalmanezer, as we have it in
holy writings, lay three years before Samaria; yet it fell.
Sardanapalus—see Diodorus—maintained himself seven in Nineveh;
but to no purpose. Troy expired at the close of the second
lustrum; and Azoth, as Aristaeus declares upon his honour as a
gentleman, opened at last her gates to Psammetichus, after having
barred them for the fifth part of a century....
“Thou wretch!—thou vixen!—thou shrew!” said I to my wife on the
morning after our wedding; “thou witch!—thou hag!—thou
whippersnapper—thou sink of iniquity!—thou fiery-faced
quintessence of all that is abominable!—thou—thou—” here standing
upon tiptoe, seizing her by the throat, and placing my mouth
close to her ear, I was preparing to launch forth a new and more
decided epithet of opprobrium, which should not fail, if
ejaculated, to convince her of her insignificance, when to my
extreme horror and astonishment I discovered that I had lost my
breath.
The phrases “I am out of breath,” “I have lost my breath,” etc.,
are often enough repeated in common conversation; but it had
never occurred to me that the terrible accident of which I speak
could _bona fide_ and actually happen! Imagine—that is if you
have a fanciful turn—imagine, I say, my wonder—my
consternation—my despair!
There is a good genius, however, which has never entirely
deserted me. In my most ungovernable moods I still retain a sense
of propriety, _et le chemin des passions me conduit_—as Lord
Edouard in the “Julie” says it did him—_à la philosophie
véritable_.
Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree
the occurrence had affected me, I determined at all events to
conceal the matter from my wife, until further experience should
discover to me the extent of this my unheard of calamity.
Altering my countenance, therefore, in a moment, from its
bepuffed and distorted appearance, to an expression of arch and
coquettish benignity, I gave my lady a pat on the one cheek, and
a kiss on the other, and without saying one syllable (Furies! I
could not), left her astonished at my drollery, as I pirouetted
out of the room in a _pas de zephyr_.
Behold me then safely ensconced in my private boudoir, a fearful
instance of the ill consequences attending upon
irascibility—alive, with the qualifications of the dead—dead,
with the propensities of the living—an anomaly on the face of the
earth—being very calm, yet breathless.
Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that my breath was
entirely gone. I could not have stirred with it a feather if my
life had been at issue, or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror.
Hard fate!—yet there was some alleviation to the first
overwhelming paroxysm of my sorrow. I found, upon trial, that the
powers of utterance which, upon my inability to proceed in the
conversation with my wife, I then concluded to be totally
destroyed, were in fact only partially impeded, and I discovered
that had I, at that interesting crisis, dropped my voice to a
singularly deep guttural, I might still have continued to her the
communication of my sentiments; this pitch of voice (the
guttural) depending, I find, not upon the current of the breath,
but upon a certain spasmodic action of the muscles of the throat.
Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed
in meditation. My reflections, be sure, were of no consolatory
kind. A thousand vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession
of my soul—and even the idea of suicide flitted across my brain;
but it is a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the
obvious and the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal. Thus I
shuddered at self-murder as the most decided of atrocities while
the tabby cat purred strenuously upon the rug, and the very
water-dog wheezed assiduously under the table, each taking to
itself much merit for the strength of its lungs, and all
obviously done in derision of my own pulmonary incapacity.
Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears, I at length
heard the footsteps of my wife descending the staircase. Being
now assured of her absence, I returned with a palpitating heart
to the scene of my disaster.
Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced a vigorous
search. It was possible, I thought, that, concealed in some
obscure corner, or lurking in some closet or drawer, might be
found the lost object of my inquiry. It might have a vapory—it
might even have a tangible form. Most philosophers, upon many
points of philosophy, are still very unphilosophical. William
Godwin, however, says in his “Mandeville,” that “invisible things
are the only realities,” and this, all will allow, is a case in
point. I would have the judicious reader pause before accusing
such asseverations of an undue quantum of absurdity. Anaxagoras,
it will be remembered, maintained that snow is black, and this I
have since found to be the case.
Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation: but the
contemptible reward of my industry and perseverance proved to be
only a set of false teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle
of billets-doux from Mr. Windenough to my wife. I might as well
here observe that this confirmation of my lady’s partiality for
Mr. W. occasioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. Lackobreath
should admire anything so dissimilar to myself was a natural and
necessary evil. I am, it is well known, of a robust and corpulent
appearance, and at the same time somewhat diminutive in stature.
What wonder, then, that the lath-like tenuity of my acquaintance,
and his altitude, which has grown into a proverb, should have met
with all due estimation in the eyes of Mrs. Lackobreath. But to
return.
My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless. Closet
after closet—drawer after drawer—corner after corner—were
scrutinized to no purpose. At one time, however, I thought myself
sure of my prize, having, in rummaging a dressing-case,
accidentally demolished a bottle of Grandjean’s Oil of
Archangels—which, as an agreeable perfume, I here take the
liberty of recommending.
With a heavy heart I returned to my boudoir—there to ponder upon
some method of eluding my wife’s penetration, until I could make
arrangements prior to my leaving the country, for to this I had
already made up my mind. In a foreign climate, being unknown, I
might, with some probability of success, endeavor to conceal my
unhappy calamity—a calamity calculated, even more than beggary,
to estrange the affections of the multitude, and to draw down
upon the wretch the well-merited indignation of the virtuous and
the happy. I was not long in hesitation. Being naturally quick, I
committed to memory the entire tragedy of “Metamora.” I had the
good fortune to recollect that in the accentuation of this drama,
or at least of such portion of it as is allotted to the hero, the
tones of voice in which I found myself deficient were altogether
unnecessary, and the deep guttural was expected to reign
monotonously throughout.
I practised for some time by the borders of a well frequented
marsh;—herein, however, having no reference to a similar
proceeding of Demosthenes, but from a design peculiarly and
conscientiously my own. Thus armed at all points, I determined to
make my wife believe that I was suddenly smitten with a passion
for the stage. In this, I succeeded to a miracle; and to every
question or suggestion found myself at liberty to reply in my
most frog-like and sepulchral tones with some passage from the
tragedy—any portion of which, as I soon took great pleasure in
observing, would apply equally well to any particular subject. It
is not to be supposed, however, that in the delivery of such
passages I was found at all deficient in the looking asquint—the
showing my teeth—the working my knees—the shuffling my feet—or in
any of those unmentionable graces which are now justly considered
the characteristics of a popular performer. To be sure they spoke
of confining me in a strait-jacket—but, good God! they never
suspected me of having lost my breath.
Having at length put my affairs in order, I took my seat very
early one morning in the mail stage for ——, giving it to be
understood, among my acquaintances, that business of the last
importance required my immediate personal attendance in that
city.
The coach was crammed to repletion; but in the uncertain twilight
the features of my companions could not be distinguished. Without
making any effectual resistance, I suffered myself to be placed
between two gentlemen of colossal dimensions; while a third, of a
size larger, requesting pardon for the liberty he was about to
take, threw himself upon my body at full length, and falling
asleep in an instant, drowned all my guttural ejaculations for
relief, in a snore which would have put to blush the roarings of
the bull of Phalaris. Happily the state of my respiratory
faculties rendered suffocation an accident entirely out of the
question.
As, however, the day broke more distinctly in our approach to the
outskirts of the city, my tormentor, arising and adjusting his
shirt-collar, thanked me in a very friendly manner for my
civility. Seeing that I remained motionless (all my limbs were
dislocated and my head twisted on one side), his apprehensions
began to be excited; and arousing the rest of the passengers, he
communicated, in a very decided manner, his opinion that a dead
man had been palmed upon them during the night for a living and
responsible fellow-traveller; here giving me a thump on the right
eye, by way of demonstrating the truth of his suggestion.
Hereupon all, one after another (there were nine in company),
believed it their duty to pull me by the ear. A young practising
physician, too, having applied a pocket-mirror to my mouth, and
found me without breath, the assertion of my persecutor was
pronounced a true bill; and the whole party expressed a
determination to endure tamely no such impositions for the
future, and to proceed no farther with any such carcasses for the
present.
I was here, accordingly, thrown out at the sign of the “Crow” (by
which tavern the coach happened to be passing), without meeting
with any farther accident than the breaking of both my arms,
under the left hind wheel of the vehicle. I must besides do the
driver the justice to state that he did not forget to throw after
me the largest of my trunks, which, unfortunately falling on my
head, fractured my skull in a manner at once interesting and
extraordinary.
The landlord of the “Crow,” who is a hospitable man, finding that
my trunk contained sufficient to indemnify him for any little
trouble he might take in my behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon
of his acquaintance, and delivered me to his care with a bill and
receipt for ten dollars.
The purchaser took me to his apartments and commenced operations
immediately. Having cut off my ears, however, he discovered signs
of animation. He now rang the bell, and sent for a neighboring
apothecary with whom to consult in the emergency. In case of his
suspicions with regard to my existence proving ultimately
correct, he, in the meantime, made an incision in my stomach, and
removed several of my viscera for private dissection.
The apothecary had an idea that I was actually dead. This idea I
endeavored to confute, kicking and plunging with all my might,
and making the most furious contortions—for the operations of the
surgeon had, in a measure, restored me to the possession of my
faculties. All, however, was attributed to the effects of a new
galvanic battery, wherewith the apothecary, who is really a man
of information, performed several curious experiments, in which,
from my personal share in their fulfillment, I could not help
feeling deeply interested. It was a course of mortification to
me, nevertheless, that although I made several attempts at
conversation, my powers of speech were so entirely in abeyance,
that I could not even open my mouth; much less, then, make reply
to some ingenious but fanciful theories of which, under other
circumstances, my minute acquaintance with the Hippocratian
pathology would have afforded me a ready confutation.
Not being able to arrive at a conclusion, the practitioners
remanded me for farther examination. I was taken up into a
garret; and the surgeon’s lady having accommodated me with
drawers and stockings, the surgeon himself fastened my hands, and
tied up my jaws with a pocket-handkerchief—then bolted the door
on the outside as he hurried to his dinner, leaving me alone to
silence and to meditation.
I now discovered to my extreme delight that I could have spoken
had not my mouth been tied up with the pocket-handkerchief.
Consoling myself with this reflection, I was mentally repeating
some passages of the “Omnipresence of the Deity,” as is my custom
before resigning myself to sleep, when two cats, of a greedy and
vituperative turn, entering at a hole in the wall, leaped up with
a flourish a la Catalani, and alighting opposite one another on
my visage, betook themselves to indecorous contention for the
paltry consideration of my nose.
But, as the loss of his ears proved the means of elevating to the
throne of Cyrus, the Magian or Mige-Gush of Persia, and as the
cutting off his nose gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so the
loss of a few ounces of my countenance proved the salvation of my
body. Aroused by the pain, and burning with indignation, I burst,
at a single effort, the fastenings and the bandage. Stalking
across the room I cast a glance of contempt at the belligerents,
and throwing open the sash to their extreme horror and
disappointment, precipitated myself, very dexterously, from the
window.
The mail-robber W——, to whom I bore a singular resemblance, was
at this moment passing from the city jail to the scaffold erected
for his execution in the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and long
continued ill health had obtained him the privilege of remaining
unmanacled; and habited in his gallows costume—one very similar
to my own,—he lay at full length in the bottom of the hangman’s
cart (which happened to be under the windows of the surgeon at
the moment of my precipitation) without any other guard than the
driver, who was asleep, and two recruits of the sixth infantry,
who were drunk.
As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the
vehicle. W——, who was an acute fellow, perceived his opportunity.
Leaping up immediately, he bolted out behind, and turning down an
alley, was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits,
aroused by the bustle, could not exactly comprehend the merits of
the transaction. Seeing, however, a man, the precise counterpart
of the felon, standing upright in the cart before their eyes,
they were of the opinion that the rascal (meaning W——) was after
making his escape, (so they expressed themselves), and, having
communicated this opinion to one another, they took each a dram,
and then knocked me down with the butt-ends of their muskets.
It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of
course nothing could be said in my defence. Hanging was my
inevitable fate. I resigned myself thereto with a feeling half
stupid, half acrimonious. Being little of a cynic, I had all the
sentiments of a dog. The hangman, however, adjusted the noose
about my neck. The drop fell.
I forbear to depict my sensations upon the gallows; although
here, undoubtedly, I could speak to the point, and it is a topic
upon which nothing has been well said. In fact, to write upon
such a theme it is necessary to have been hanged. Every author
should confine himself to matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony
composed a treatise upon getting drunk.
I may just mention, however, that die I did not. My body was, but
I had no breath to be, suspended; and but for the knot under my
left ear (which had the feel of a military stock) I dare say that
I should have experienced very little inconvenience. As for the
jerk given to my neck upon the falling of the drop, it merely
proved a corrective to the twist afforded me by the fat gentleman
in the coach.
For good reasons, however, I did my best to give the crowd the
worth of their trouble. My convulsions were said to be
extraordinary. My spasms it would have been difficult to beat.
The populace encored. Several gentlemen swooned; and a multitude
of ladies were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit availed himself
of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch taken upon the spot,
his admirable painting of the “Marsyas flayed alive.”
When I had afforded sufficient amusement, it was thought proper
to remove my body from the gallows;—this the more especially as
the real culprit had in the meantime been retaken and recognized,
a fact which I was so unlucky as not to know.
Much sympathy was, of course, exercised in my behalf, and as no
one made claim to my corpse, it was ordered that I should be
interred in a public vault.
Here, after due interval, I was deposited. The sexton departed,
and I was left alone. A line of Marston’s “Malcontent”—
Death’s a good fellow and keeps open house—
struck me at that moment as a palpable lie.
I knocked off, however, the lid of my coffin, and stepped out.
The place was dreadfully dreary and damp, and I became troubled
with ennui. By way of amusement, I felt my way among the numerous
coffins ranged in order around. I lifted them down, one by one,
and breaking open their lids, busied myself in speculations about
the mortality within.
“This,” I soliloquized, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated,
and rotund—“this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word,
an unhappy—an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not
to walk but to waddle—to pass through life not like a human
being, but like an elephant—not like a man, but like a
rhinoceros.
“His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions, and his
circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step
forward, it has been his misfortune to take two toward the right,
and three toward the left. His studies have been confined to the
poetry of Crabbe. He can have no idea of the wonder of a
pirouette. To him a pas de papillon has been an abstract
conception. He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has
never viewed from any steeple the glories of a metropolis. Heat
has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been the
days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and
suffocation—of mountains upon mountains—of Pelion upon Ossa. He
was short of breath—to say all in a word, he was short of breath.
He thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was
the inventor of self-moving fans, wind-sails, and ventilators. He
patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker, and he died miserably in
attempting to smoke a cigar. His was a case in which I feel a
deep interest—a lot in which I sincerely sympathize.
“But here,”—said I—“here”—and I dragged spitefully from its
receptacle a gaunt, tall and peculiar-looking form, whose
remarkable appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome
familiarity—“here is a wretch entitled to no earthly
commiseration.” Thus saying, in order to obtain a more distinct
view of my subject, I applied my thumb and forefinger to its
nose, and causing it to assume a sitting position upon the
ground, held it thus, at the length of my arm, while I continued
my soliloquy.
“Entitled,” I repeated, “to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed
would think of compassioning a shadow? Besides, has he not had
his full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the
originator of tall monuments—shot-towers—lightning-rods—Lombardy
poplars. His treatise upon “Shades and Shadows” has immortalized
him. He edited with distinguished ability the last edition of
“South on the Bones.” He went early to college and studied
pneumatics. He then came home, talked eternally, and played upon
the French-horn. He patronized the bagpipes. Captain Barclay, who
walked against Time, would not walk against him. Windham and
Allbreath were his favorite writers,—his favorite artist, Phiz.
He died gloriously while inhaling gas—levique flatu corrupitur,
like the fama pudicitae in Hieronymus. {*1} He was indubitably
a—”
“How can you?—how—can—you?”—interrupted the object of my
animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate
exertion, the bandage around its jaws—“how can you, Mr. Lackobreath, be
so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by the nose? Did you
not see how they had fastened up my mouth—and you must know—if you know
any thing—how vast a superfluity of breath I have to dispose of! If you
do not know, however, sit down and you shall see. In my situation it is
really a great relief to be able to open ones mouth—to be able to
expatiate—to be able to communicate with a person like yourself, who do
not think yourself called upon at every period to interrupt the thread
of a gentleman’s discourse. Interruptions are annoying and should
undoubtedly be abolished—don’t you think so?—no reply, I beg you,—one
person is enough to be speaking at a time.—I shall be done by and by,
and then you may begin.—How the devil sir, did you get into this
place?—not a word I beseech you—been here some time myself—terrible
accident!—heard of it, I suppose?—awful calamity!—walking under your
windows—some short while ago—about the time you were
stage-struck—horrible occurrence!—heard of “catching one’s breath,”
eh?—hold your tongue I tell you!—I caught somebody else’s!—had always
too much of my own—met Blab at the corner of the street—wouldn’t give
me a chance for a word—couldn’t get in a syllable edgeways—attacked,
consequently, with epilepsis—Blab made his escape—damn all fools!—they
took me up for dead, and put me in this place—pretty doings all of
them!—heard all you said about me—every word a
lie—horrible!—wonderful!—outrageous!—hideous!—incomprehensible!—et
cetera—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera—”
It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so unexpected a
discourse, or the joy with which I became gradually convinced
that the breath so fortunately caught by the gentleman (whom I
soon recognized as my neighbor Windenough) was, in fact, the
identical expiration mislaid by myself in the conversation with
my wife. Time, place, and circumstances rendered it a matter
beyond question. I did not, however, immediately release my hold
upon Mr. W.’s proboscis—not at least during the long period in
which the inventor of Lombardy poplars continued to favor me with
his explanations.
In this respect I was actuated by that habitual prudence which
has ever been my predominating trait. I reflected that many
difficulties might still lie in the path of my preservation which
only extreme exertion on my part would be able to surmount. Many
persons, I considered, are prone to estimate commodities in their
possession—however valueless to the then proprietor—however
troublesome, or distressing—in direct ratio with the advantages
to be derived by others from their attainment, or by themselves
from their abandonment. Might not this be the case with Mr.
Windenough? In displaying anxiety for the breath of which he was
at present so willing to get rid, might I not lay myself open to
the exactions of his avarice? There are scoundrels in this world,
I remembered with a sigh, who will not scruple to take unfair
opportunities with even a next door neighbor, and (this remark is
from Epictetus) it is precisely at that time when men are most
anxious to throw off the burden of their own calamities that they
feel the least desirous of relieving them in others.
Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining my
grasp upon the nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought proper to
model my reply.
“Monster!” I began in a tone of the deepest indignation—“monster
and double-winded idiot!—dost thou, whom for thine iniquities it
has pleased heaven to accurse with a two-fold respimtion—dost
thou, I say, presume to address me in the familiar language of an
old acquaintance?—‘I lie,’ forsooth! and ‘hold my tongue,’ to be
sure!—pretty conversation indeed, to a gentleman with a single
breath!—all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve the
calamity under which thou dost so justly suffer—to curtail the
superfluities of thine unhappy respiration.”
Like Brutus, I paused for a reply—with which, like a tornado, Mr.
Windenough immediately overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon
protestation, and apology upon apology. There were no terms with
which he was unwilling to comply, and there were none of which I
failed to take the fullest advantage.
Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance delivered
me the respiration; for which (having carefully examined it) I
gave him afterward a receipt.
I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame for speaking in
a manner so cursory, of a transaction so impalpable. It will be
thought that I should have entered more minutely, into the
details of an occurrence by which—and this is very true—much new
light might be thrown upon a highly interesting branch of
physical philosophy.
To all this I am sorry that I cannot reply. A hint is the only
answer which I am permitted to make. There were circumstances—but
I think it much safer upon consideration to say as little as
possible about an affair so delicate—so delicate, I repeat, and
at the time involving the interests of a third party whose
sulphurous resentment I have not the least desire, at this
moment, of incurring.
We were not long after this necessary arrangement in effecting an
escape from the dungeons of the sepulchre. The united strength of
our resuscitated voices was soon sufficiently apparent. Scissors,
the Whig editor, republished a treatise upon “the nature and
origin of subterranean noises.” A reply—rejoinder—confutation—and
justification—followed in the columns of a Democratic gazette. It
was not until the opening of the vault to decide the controversy,
that the appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself proved both
parties to have been decidedly in the wrong.
I cannot conclude these details of some very singular passages in
a life at all times sufficiently eventful, without again
recalling to the attention of the reader the merits of that
indiscriminate philosophy which is a sure and ready shield
against those shafts of calamity which can neither be seen, felt
nor fully understood. It was in the spirit of this wisdom that,
among the ancient Hebrews, it was believed the gates of Heaven
would be inevitably opened to that sinner, or saint, who, with
good lungs and implicit confidence, should vociferate the word
“Amen!” It was in the spirit of this wisdom that, when a great
plague raged at Athens, and every means had been in vain
attempted for its removal, Epimenides, as Laërtius relates, in
his second book, of that philosopher, advised the erection of a
shrine and temple “to the proper God.”
LYTTLETON BARRY.