by Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849)
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, so 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 single 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 senses?—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!"
Questions:
1. Is the narrator crazy? Why?
2. What job does the narrator have?
3. The narrator says he hears the old man’s
heart. What does he really hear?
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