The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2 Read online

  THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE

  IN THE consideration of the faculties and impulses--of the prima mobiliaof the human soul, the phrenologists have failed to make room for apropensity which, although obviously existing as a radical, primitive,irreducible sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the moralistswho have preceded them. In the pure arrogance of the reason, we haveall overlooked it. We have suffered its existence to escape our senses,solely through want of belief--of faith;--whether it be faith inRevelation, or faith in the Kabbala. The idea of it has never occurredto us, simply because of its supererogation. We saw no need of theimpulse--for the propensity. We could not perceive its necessity. Wecould not understand, that is to say, we could not have understood, hadthe notion of this primum mobile ever obtruded itself;--we could nothave understood in what manner it might be made to further the objectsof humanity, either temporal or eternal. It cannot be denied thatphrenology and, in great measure, all metaphysicianism have beenconcocted a priori. The intellectual or logical man, rather than theunderstanding or observant man, set himself to imagine designs--todictate purposes to God. Having thus fathomed, to his satisfaction, theintentions of Jehovah, out of these intentions he built his innumerablesystems of mind. In the matter of phrenology, for example, we firstdetermined, naturally enough, that it was the design of the Deity thatman should eat. We then assigned to man an organ of alimentiveness,and this organ is the scourge with which the Deity compels man, will-Inill-I, into eating. Secondly, having settled it to be God's will thatman should continue his species, we discovered an organ of amativeness,forthwith. And so with combativeness, with ideality, with causality,with constructiveness,--so, in short, with every organ, whetherrepresenting a propensity, a moral sentiment, or a faculty of the pureintellect. And in these arrangements of the Principia of human action,the Spurzheimites, whether right or wrong, in part, or upon the whole,have but followed, in principle, the footsteps of their predecessors:deducing and establishing every thing from the preconceived destiny ofman, and upon the ground of the objects of his Creator.

  It would have been wiser, it would have been safer, to classify (ifclassify we must) upon the basis of what man usually or occasionallydid, and was always occasionally doing, rather than upon the basis ofwhat we took it for granted the Deity intended him to do. If we cannotcomprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivablethoughts, that call the works into being? If we cannot understand him inhis objective creatures, how then in his substantive moods and phases ofcreation?

  Induction, a posteriori, would have brought phrenology to admit, as aninnate and primitive principle of human action, a paradoxical something,which we may call perverseness, for want of a more characteristic term.In the sense I intend, it is, in fact, a mobile without motive, a motivenot motivirt. Through its promptings we act without comprehensibleobject; or, if this shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, wemay so far modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptingswe act, for the reason that we should not. In theory, no reason can bemore unreasonable, but, in fact, there is none more strong. With certainminds, under certain conditions, it becomes absolutely irresistible. Iam not more certain that I breathe, than that the assurance of the wrongor error of any action is often the one unconquerable force which impelsus, and alone impels us to its prosecution. Nor will this overwhelmingtendency to do wrong for the wrong's sake, admit of analysis, orresolution into ulterior elements. It is a radical, a primitiveimpulse-elementary. It will be said, I am aware, that when we persist inacts because we feel we should not persist in them, our conduct is but amodification of that which ordinarily springs from the combativenessof phrenology. But a glance will show the fallacy of this idea. Thephrenological combativeness has for its essence, the necessity ofself-defence. It is our safeguard against injury. Its principle regardsour well-being; and thus the desire to be well is excited simultaneouslywith its development. It follows, that the desire to be well mustbe excited simultaneously with any principle which shall be merely amodification of combativeness, but in the case of that something which Iterm perverseness, the desire to be well is not only not aroused, but astrongly antagonistical sentiment exists.

  An appeal to one's own heart is, after all, the best reply to thesophistry just noticed. No one who trustingly consults and thoroughlyquestions his own soul, will be disposed to deny the entire radicalnessof the propensity in question. It is not more incomprehensible thandistinctive. There lives no man who at some period has not beentormented, for example, by an earnest desire to tantalize a listener bycircumlocution. The speaker is aware that he displeases; he has everyintention to please, he is usually curt, precise, and clear, the mostlaconic and luminous language is struggling for utterance upon histongue, it is only with difficulty that he restrains himself from givingit flow; he dreads and deprecates the anger of him whom he addresses;yet, the thought strikes him, that by certain involutions andparentheses this anger may be engendered. That single thought is enough.The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire toan uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret andmortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences) isindulged.

  We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know thatit will be ruinous to make delay. The most important crisis of our lifecalls, trumpet-tongued, for immediate energy and action. We glow, we areconsumed with eagerness to commence the work, with the anticipation ofwhose glorious result our whole souls are on fire. It must, it shall beundertaken to-day, and yet we put it off until to-morrow, and why?There is no answer, except that we feel perverse, using the word withno comprehension of the principle. To-morrow arrives, and with it a moreimpatient anxiety to do our duty, but with this very increase of anxietyarrives, also, a nameless, a positively fearful, because unfathomable,craving for delay. This craving gathers strength as the moments fly.The last hour for action is at hand. We tremble with the violence ofthe conflict within us,--of the definite with the indefinite--of thesubstance with the shadow. But, if the contest have proceeded thusfar, it is the shadow which prevails,--we struggle in vain. The clockstrikes, and is the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it isthe chanticleer--note to the ghost that has so long overawed us. Itflies--it disappears--we are free. The old energy returns. We will labornow. Alas, it is too late!

  We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss--wegrow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger.Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and dizziness andhorror become merged in a cloud of unnamable feeling. By gradations,still more imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, as did the vaporfrom the bottle out of which arose the genius in the Arabian Nights.But out of this our cloud upon the precipice's edge, there grows intopalpability, a shape, far more terrible than any genius or any demonof a tale, and yet it is but a thought, although a fearful one, and onewhich chills the very marrow of our bones with the fierceness of thedelight of its horror. It is merely the idea of what would be oursensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such aheight. And this fall--this rushing annihilation--for the very reasonthat it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of all the mostghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which have everpresented themselves to our imagination--for this very cause do we nowthe most vividly desire it. And because our reason violently deters usfrom the brink, therefore do we the most impetuously approach it. Thereis no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who,shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a Plunge. Toindulge, for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitablylost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, Isay, that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if wefail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the abyss,we plunge, and are destroyed.

  Examine these similar actions as we will, we shall find them resultingsolely from the spirit of the Perverse. We perpetrate them because wefeel that we should not. Beyond or behi
nd this there is no intelligibleprinciple; and we might, indeed, deem this perverseness a directinstigation of the Arch-Fiend, were it not occasionally known to operatein furtherance of good.

  I have said thus much, that in some measure I may answer your question,that I may explain to you why I am here, that I may assign to yousomething that shall have at least the faint aspect of a cause for mywearing these fetters, and for my tenanting this cell of the condemned.Had I not been thus prolix, you might either have misunderstood mealtogether, or, with the rabble, have fancied me mad. As it is, you willeasily perceive that I am one of the many uncounted victims of the Impof the Perverse.

  It is impossible that any deed could have been wrought with a morethorough deliberation. For weeks, for months, I pondered upon themeans of the murder. I rejected a thousand schemes, because theiraccomplishment involved a chance of detection. At length, in readingsome French Memoirs, I found an account of a nearly fatal illness thatoccurred to Madame Pilau, through the agency of a candle accidentallypoisoned. The idea struck my fancy at once. I knew my victim's habitof reading in bed. I knew, too, that his apartment was narrow andill-ventilated. But I need not vex you with impertinent details. I neednot describe the easy artifices by which I substituted, in his bed-roomcandle-stand, a wax-light of my own making for the one which I therefound. The next morning he was discovered dead in his bed, and theCoroner's verdict was--"Death by the visitation of God."

  Having inherited his estate, all went well with me for years. The ideaof detection never once entered my brain. Of the remains of the fataltaper I had myself carefully disposed. I had left no shadow of a clewby which it would be possible to convict, or even to suspect me of thecrime. It is inconceivable how rich a sentiment of satisfaction arosein my bosom as I reflected upon my absolute security. For a very longperiod of time I was accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It affordedme more real delight than all the mere worldly advantages accruing frommy sin. But there arrived at length an epoch, from which the pleasurablefeeling grew, by scarcely perceptible gradations, into a haunting andharassing thought. It harassed because it haunted. I could scarcely getrid of it for an instant. It is quite a common thing to be thus annoyedwith the ringing in our ears, or rather in our memories, of the burthenof some ordinary song, or some unimpressive snatches from an opera.Nor will we be the less tormented if the song in itself be good, orthe opera air meritorious. In this manner, at last, I would perpetuallycatch myself pondering upon my security, and repeating, in a lowundertone, the phrase, "I am safe."

  One day, whilst sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself in theact of murmuring, half aloud, these customary syllables. In a fit ofpetulance, I remodelled them thus; "I am safe--I am safe--yes--if I benot fool enough to make open confession!"

  No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep tomy heart. I had had some experience in these fits of perversity, (whosenature I have been at some trouble to explain), and I remembered wellthat in no instance I had successfully resisted their attacks. And nowmy own casual self-suggestion that I might possibly be fool enough toconfess the murder of which I had been guilty, confronted me, as if thevery ghost of him whom I had murdered--and beckoned me on to death.

  At first, I made an effort to shake off this nightmare of the soul.I walked vigorously--faster--still faster--at length I ran. I felta maddening desire to shriek aloud. Every succeeding wave of thoughtoverwhelmed me with new terror, for, alas! I well, too well understoodthat to think, in my situation, was to be lost. I still quickened mypace. I bounded like a madman through the crowded thoroughfares. Atlength, the populace took the alarm, and pursued me. I felt then theconsummation of my fate. Could I have torn out my tongue, I would havedone it, but a rough voice resounded in my ears--a rougher grasp seizedme by the shoulder. I turned--I gasped for breath. For a moment Iexperienced all the pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf,and giddy; and then some invisible fiend, I thought, struck me with hisbroad palm upon the back. The long imprisoned secret burst forth from mysoul.

  They say that I spoke with a distinct enunciation, but with markedemphasis and passionate hurry, as if in dread of interruption beforeconcluding the brief, but pregnant sentences that consigned me to thehangman and to hell.

  Having related all that was necessary for the fullest judicialconviction, I fell prostrate in a swoon.

  But why shall I say more? To-day I wear these chains, and am here!To-morrow I shall be fetterless!--but where?