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Category > English Posted 08 Sep 2017 My Price 10.00

Writing 2 compare essay

the_cask_of_amontillado.pdf the_tell-tale_heart_0.pdf 

You need reading two short essay, The_cask_of_amontillado and The tell-tale heart first. And then writing two essays based on these two short stories. You need compare the two stories.  The two essays should be both more than 500 words and 5 paragraphs. I don't know the topics, So you need  to compare  two story and decide the topic which you think most possible and finish these two essay

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
68
p
Edgar Allan Poe
The Cask of Amontillado
f
oRTunaTo
had
huRT
me
a
thousand times and I had suffered
quietly. But then I learned that he
had laughed at my proud name,
Montresor, the name of an old
and honored family. I promised
myself that I would make him
pay for this — that I would have
revenge
. You must not suppose,
however, that I spoke of this to
anyone. I would make him pay,
yes; but I would act only with the
greatest care. I must not suffer
as a result of taking my revenge.
A
wrong
is not made right in
that manner. And also the wrong
would not be made right unless Fortunato knew that he was paying
and knew who was forcing him to pay.
I gave Fortunato no cause to doubt me. I continued to smile in
his face, and he did not understand that I was now smiling at the
thought of what I planned for him, at the thought of my revenge.
Fortunato was a strong man, a man to be feared. But he had one
great weakness: he liked to drink good wine, and indeed he drank
much of it. So he knew a lot about fine wines, and
proudly
believed
that he was a trained judge of them. I, too, knew old wines well, and
69
Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller
I bought the best I could find. And wine, I thought, wine would give
me my revenge!
It was almost dark, one evening in the spring, when I met
Fortunato in the street, alone. He spoke to me more
warmly
than was
usual, for already he had drunk more wine than was good for him. I
acted pleased to see him, and I shook his hand, as if he had been my
closest friend.
“Fortunato! How are you?”
“Montresor! Good evening, my friend.”
“My dear
Fortunato! I am indeed glad that I have met you. I
was just thinking of you. For I have been tasting my new wine. I have
bought a full
cask
of a fine wine which they tell me is Amontillado.
But....”
“Amontillado! Quite impossible.”
“I know. It does not seem possible. As I could not find you I
was just going to talk to Luchresi. If anyone understands wines it is
Luchresi. He will tell me....”
“Luchresi? He does not know one wine from another!”
“But they say he knows as much about wines as you know.”
“Ho! — Come. Let us go.”
“Go where?”
“To your
vaults
. To taste the wine.”
“No, my friend, no. I can see that you are not well. And the
vaults are cold and wet.”
“I do not care. Let us go. I’m well enough. The cold is nothing.
Amontillado! Someone is playing games with you. And Luchresi! Ha!
Luchresi knows nothing about wines, nothing at all.”
As he spoke, Fortunato took my arm, and I allowed him to
hurry
me to my great stone
palace
, where my family, the Montresors, had
lived for centuries. There was no one at home. I had told the
servants
that they must not leave the palace, as I would not return until the
following morning and they must care for the place. This, I knew, was
enough to make it certain that they would all leave as soon as my back
was turned.
I took down from their places on the wall two
brightly
burning
lights. I gave one of these to Fortunato and led him to a wide doorway.
There we could see the stone steps going down into the darkness.
70
Edgar Allan Poe
Asking him to be careful as he followed, I went down before him,
down under the ground, deep under the old walls of my palace. We
came finally to the bottom of the steps and stood there a moment
together. The earth which formed the floor was cold and hard. We
were entering the last resting place of the dead of the Montresor fam
-
ily. Here too we kept our finest wines, here in the cool, dark, still air
under the ground.
Fortunato’s step was not sure, because of the wine he had been
drinking. He looked
uncertainly
around him, trying to see through
the thick darkness which pushed in around us. Here our brightly burn
-
ing lights seemed weak indeed. But our eyes soon became used to the
darkness. We could see the bones of the dead lying in large piles along
the walls. The stones of the walls were wet and cold.
From the long rows of bottles which were lying on the floor,
among the bones, I chose one which contained a very good wine.
Since I did not have anything to open the bottle with, I struck the
stone wall with it and broke off the small end. I offered the bottle to
Fortunato.
“Here, Fortunato. Drink some of this fine Medoc. It will help to
keep us warm. Drink!”
“Thank you, my friend. I drink to the dead who lie sleeping
around us.”
“And I, Fortunato — I drink to your long life.”
“Ahh! A very fine wine, indeed! But the Amontillado?”
“It is farther on. Come.”
We walked on for some time. We were now under the river’s bed,
and water fell in drops upon us from above. Deeper into the ground
we went, past still more bones.
“Your vaults are many, and large. There seems to be no end to
them.”
“We are a great family, and an old one. It is not far now. But I
can see you are
trembling
with the cold. Come! Let us go back before
it is too late.”
“It is nothing. Let us go on. But first, another drink of your
Medoc!”
I took up from among the bones another bottle. It was another
wine of a fine quality, a De Grâve. Again I broke off the neck of the
71
Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller
bottle. Fortunato took it and drank it all without stopping for a breath.
He laughed, and threw the empty bottle over his shoulder.
We went on, deeper and deeper into the earth. Finally we arrived
at a vault in which the air was so old and heavy that our lights almost
died. Against three of the walls there were piles of bones higher
than our heads. From the fourth wall someone had pulled down all
the bones, and they were spread all around us on the ground. In the
middle of the wall was an opening into another vault, if I can call it
that — a little room about three feet wide, six or seven feet high, and
perhaps four feet deep. It was hardly more than a hole
in the wall.
“Go on,” I said. “Go in; the
Amontillado is in there.”
Fortunato continued to go
forward, uncertainly. I fol
lowed
him immediately. Soon, of course,
he reached the back wall. He
stood there a moment, facing the
wall, surprised and wondering.
In that wall were two heavy iron
rings. A short chain was hanging
from one of these and a lock
from the other. Before Fortunato
could guess
what was happening,
I closed the lock and chained him
tightly
to the wall. I stepped back.
“Fortunato,” I said. “Put your hand against the wall. You must
feel how the water runs over it. Once more I ask you, please, will you
not go back? No? If not, then I must leave you. But first I must do
everything I can for you.”
“But...But the Amontillado?”
“Ah, yes, yes indeed; the Amontillado.”
As I spoke these words I began to search
among the bones.
Throwing them to one side I found the stones which earlier I had
taken down from the wall. Quickly I began to build the wall again,
covering the hole where Fortunato stood trembling.
“Montresor! What are you doing!?”
72
Edgar Allan Poe
I continued working. I could hear him pulling at the chain, shak
-
ing it
wildly
. Only a few stones remained to put in their place.
“Montresor! Ha-ha. This is a very good joke, indeed. Many times
will we laugh about it — ha-ha — as we drink our wine together —
ha-ha.”
“Of course. As we drink the Amontillado.”
“But is it not late? Should we not be going back? They will be
expecting us. Let us go.”
“Yes. Let us go.”
As I said this I lifted the last stone from the ground.
“Montresor! For the love of God!!”
“Yes. For the love of God!”
I heard no answer. “Fortunato!” I cried. “Fortunato.” I heard only
a soft, low sound, a half-cry of fear. My heart grew sick; it must have
been the cold. I hurried
to force the last stone into its position. And
I put the old bones again in a pile against the wall. For half a century
now no human hand has touched them. May he rest in peace!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
64
p
Edgar Allan Poe
The Tell-Tale Heart
i
T
’
s
TRue
!
yes
, i
have
been
ill
,
very ill. But why do you say that
I have lost control of my mind,
why do you say that I am mad?
Can you not see that I have full
control of my mind? Is it not clear
that I am not mad? Indeed, the
illness only made my mind, my
feelings, my senses stronger, more
powerful. My sense of hearing
especially became more powerful.
I could hear sounds I had never
heard before. I heard sounds from
heaven; and I heard sounds from
hell!
Listen! Listen, and I will tell
you how it happened. You will see, you will hear how healthy my mind
is.
It is impossible to say how the idea first entered my head. There
was no reason for what I did. I did not hate the old man; I even loved
him. He had never hurt me. I did not want his money. I think it was
his eye. His eye was like the eye of a
vulture
, the eye of one of those
terrible birds that watch and wait while an animal dies, and then fall
upon the dead body and pull it to pieces to eat it. When the old man
looked at me with his vulture eye a cold feeling went up and down my
65
Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller
back; even my blood became cold. And so, I finally decided I had to
kill the old man and close that eye forever!
So you think that I am mad? A madman cannot plan. But you
should have seen me. During all of that week I was as friendly to the
old man as I could be, and warm, and loving.
Every night about twelve o’clock I slowly opened his door. And
when the door was opened wide enough I put my hand in, and then
my head. In my hand I held a light covered over with a cloth so that
no light showed. And I stood there quietly. Then, carefully, I lifted the
cloth, just a little, so that a single, thin, small light fell across that eye.
For seven nights I did this, seven long nights, every night at midnight.
Always the eye was closed, so it was impossible for me to do the work.
For it was not the old man I felt I had to kill; it was the eye, his Evil
Eye.
And every morning I went to his room, and with a warm, friendly
voice I asked him how he had slept. He could not guess that every
night, just at twelve, I looked in at him as he slept.
The eighth night I was more than usually careful as I opened
the door. The hands of a clock move more quickly than did my hand.
Never before had I felt so strongly my own power; I was now sure of
success.
The old man was lying there not dreaming that I was at his door.
Suddenly he moved in his bed. You may think I became afraid. But no.
The darkness in his room was thick and black. I knew he could not see
the opening of the door. I continued to push the door, slowly, softly. I
put in my head. I put in my hand, with the covered light. Suddenly the
old man sat straight up in bed and cried, “Who’s there??!”
I stood quite still. For a whole hour I did not move. Nor did I
hear him again lie down in his bed. He just sat there, listening. Then I
heard a sound, a low cry of fear which escaped from the old man. Now
I knew that he was sitting up in his bed, filled with fear; I knew that he
knew that I was there. He did not see me there. He could not hear me
there. He felt me there. Now he knew that Death was standing there.
Slowly, little by little, I lifted the cloth, until a small, small light
escaped from under it to fall upon — to fall upon that vulture eye!
It was open — wide, wide open, and my anger increased as it looked
straight at me. I could not see the old man’s face. Only that eye, that
66
Edgar Allan Poe
hard blue eye, and the blood in my body became like ice.
Have I not told you that my hearing had become un
usually
strong? Now I could hear a quick, low, soft sound, like the sound of a
clock heard through a wall. It was the beating of the old man’s heart.
I tried to stand quietly. But the sound grew louder. The old man’s fear
must have been great indeed. And as the sound grew louder my anger
became greater and more painful. But it was more than anger. In the
quiet night, in the dark silence of the bedroom my anger became
fear — for the heart was beating so loudly that I was sure some one
must hear. The time had come! I rushed into the room, crying, “Die!
Die!” The old man gave a loud cry of fear as I fell upon him and held
the bedcovers
tightly
over his head. Still his heart was beating; but
I smiled as I felt that success was near. For many minutes that heart
continued to beat; but at last the beating stopped. The old man was
dead. I took away the bed
covers and held my ear over his heart. There
was no sound. Yes. He was dead! Dead as a stone. His eye would
trouble
me no more!
So I am mad, you say? You
should have seen how care
ful I
was to put the body where no one
could find it. First I cut off the
head, then the arms and the legs. I
was careful not to let a single drop
of blood fall on the floor. I pulled
up three of the boards that formed
the floor, and put the pieces of the
body there. Then I put the boards
down again, care
fully, so carefully
that no human eye could see that
they had been moved.
As I finished this work I
heard that someone was at the
door. It was now four o’clock in
the morning, but still dark. I had
no fear, however, as I went down
to open the door. Three men were
at the door, three officers of the

 

 

 

Answers

CourseLover
(12)
Status NEW Posted 08 Sep 2017 07:09 AM My Price 10.00

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