第20章 共23章

THE TELL-TALE HEART.

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!”