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Edgar
Allan Poe
TRUE!—NERVOUS—VERY, very dreadfully
nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad?
The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them.
Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and
in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and
observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first
the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and
night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He
had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no
desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a
pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran
cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life
of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad.
Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how
wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what
dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than
during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I
turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh so gently! And then, when I had
made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed,
closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you
would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it
slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It
took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could
see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been
so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid
the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I
undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And
this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the
eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not
the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the
day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him,
calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the
night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to
suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than
usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves
more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my
own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To
think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to
dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and
perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you
may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the
thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of
robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I
kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open
the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man
sprang up in bed, crying out—“Who's there?”
I kept quite still and said nothing. For
a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him
lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have done,
night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I
knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of
grief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the
soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at
midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom,
deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew
it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at
heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise,
when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him.
He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had
been saying to himself—“It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is
only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a
single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these
suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in
approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped
the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow
that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence
of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very
patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a
little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you
cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a simple dim ray,
like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon
the vulture eye.
It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew
furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue,
with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I
could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the
ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you
mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?—now, I say, there came
to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when
enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old
man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier
into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still.
I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I
could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of
the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every
instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder,
I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well I have told you that I am
nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful
silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to
uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood
still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And
now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old
man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped
into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor,
and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far
done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This,
however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length
it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the
corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and
held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye
would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will
think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the
concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in
silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the
arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the
flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then
replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not
even his—could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no
stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for
that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors,
it was four o'clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there
came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light
heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced
themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been
heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused;
information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had
been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade
the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The
old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over
the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length, to his
chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of
my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest
from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect
triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse
of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner
had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered
cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting
pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my
ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—It
continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the
feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found
that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I
talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and
what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as
a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet
the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise
steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with
violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be
gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by
the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what
could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been
sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and
continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the
men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty
God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery
of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than
this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those
hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and
now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks! here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!”
~x~
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