THE TELL-TALE HEART / 727

still a b r o a d in all its wrath a s I f o u n d myself c r o s s i n g the old c a u s e w a y .

S u d d e n l y there shot a l o n g the pa t h a wild light, a n d I t u r n e d to s e e w h e n c e
a g l e a m so u n u s u a l c o u l d have i s s u e d — f o r the vast h o u s e a n d its s h a d o w s
were a l o n e b e h i n d m e . T h e r a d i a n c e w a s that of the full, set t ing, a n d blood-
red m o o n , which now s h o n e vividly through that o n c e barely-discernible
fissure, of which I have before s p o k e n , a s extending from t he roof of the
building, in a zig-zag direction, to the b a s e . W h i l e I g a z e d, this fissure rapidly
w i d e n e d — t h e r e c a m e a fierce breath of the w h i r l w i n d— t h e entire orb of the
satellite bu rs t at o n c e u p o n my s i g h t — m y brain reeled a s I s a w the mighty
walls r u s h i n g a s u n d e r — t h e r e w a s a long t u m u l t u o u s s h o u t i n g s o u n d like t he
voice of a t h o u s a n d w a t e r s — a n d the d e e p a n d d a n k tarn at my feet c l o s e d
sullenly a n d silently over the f r a g m e n t s of the "House of Usher."

1839

The Tell-Tale Heart 1

Art is long and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave.
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
Longfellow2

T r u e ! — n e r v o u s — v e r y , very dreadfully n e rv o u s I h a d b e e n , a n d a m ; but

why will you say that I a m m a d ? T h e d i s e a s e h a d s h a r p e n e d my s e n s e s — n o t
d e s t r o y e d — n o t dulled t h e m . Above all w a s the s e n s e of h e a r i n g a c u t e . I
heard all things in the heaven a n d in the e a rt h . I heard m a n y things in hell.
Ho w , t h e n , a m I m a d ? H a r k e n ! a n d o bs e rv e how h e a l t h i l y — h o w calmly I
can tell you the whole story.
It is i m p o s s i b l e to say how first the idea e n t e r e d my brain; but, o n c e c o n -
ceived, it h a u n t e d m e day a n d night. O b j e c t there w a s n o n e . P a s s i o n there
was n o n e . I loved the old m a n . H e had never wronged m e . H e h a d never
given m e insult. F o r his gold I h a d no desire. I think it w a s his e y e ! — y e s , it
w a s this! H e had the eye of a v u l t u r e — a p a l e bl u e eye, with a film over it.
W h e n e v e r it fell u p o n m e , my blood ran cold; a n d s o , by d e g r e e s — v e r y grad-
ually—I m a d e up my m i n d to take the life of the old m a n , a n d t h u s rid myself
of the eye forever.
N o w this is the point. You fancy m e m a d . M a d m e n know nothing. B u t you
s h o u l d have s e e n me. You s h o u l d have seen how wisely I p r o c e e d e d — w i t h
what c a u t i o n — w i t h what foresight—with what di s s i mu l a t i o n I went to work!
I was never kinder to the old m a n than du r i n g the whole w e e k before I killed
him. A n d every night, a b o u t midnight, I t urned the latch of his do o r a n d
o p e n e d i t — o h s o gently! And then, when I h a d m a d e a n o p e n i n g sufficient
for my h e a d, I first p u t in a dark lantern,* all c l o s e d, c l o s e d, so that no light

1. F i r s t p u b l i s h e d in The pioneer (January 1843), (in cludin g the u s e of italics) t h r ou g h ou t . M o s t

t h e s o u r c e of t h e p r e s e n t text. P o e very likely m a d e modern reprintings derive from the corrupt 1845
a f e w o f t h e c h a n g e s f or t h e r e p r i n t i n g in t h e t e x t t h a t R u f u s G r i s w o l d r e p r i n t e d in t h e first v o l -
Broadway Journal (August 23, 1845) (such as u m e o f P o e ' s p o s t h u m o u s Works (1850).
c h a n g i n g the old man t o " h e " o r " h i m " a f e w t i m e s ) , 2. Hen ry W a d s w o r t h Longfellow's ( 1 8 0 7 - 1 8 8 2 )
b u t t h e Broadway Journal compositor dropped "A P s a l m of Life," lines 1 3 - 1 6 .
s o m e n e c e s s a r y w o r d s ( f o o t n o t e d in t h e t e x t ) , m i s - 3. O n e with p a n e s that c a n b e c o v e r e d .
printed others, and bungled the punctuation
728 / EDGAR ALLAN POE

s h o n e out, a n d t hen I thrust in my h e a d . O h , you w o u l d have l a u g h e d to s e e

how c u n n i n g l y I thrust it in! I mo v e d it slowly—very, very slowly, s o that I
might not di s t u rb the old m a n ' s s l e e p . It took m e a n h o u r to p l a c e my whole
h e a d within the o p e n i n g s o far that I c o u l d s e e the old m a n a s he lay u p o n
his b e d. H a ! — w o u l d a m a d m a n have b e e n so wise a s this? A n d t h e n , w h e n
my h e a d w a s well in t he r o o m , I u n d i d t he lantern c a u t i o u s l y — o h , s o c a u -
tiously (for the h i n g e s c r e a k e d ) — I u n di d it j u s t s o m u c h that a single thin
ray fell u p o n the vulture eye. A n d this I did for s e v e n long n i g h t s — e v e ry
night j u s t at m i d n i g h t — b u t I f o u n d t he eye always c l o s e d ; a n d so it w a s
i m p o s s i b l e to do the work; for it w a s not the old m a n w h o vexed m e , but his
Evil Eye. A n d every mo r n i n g , w h e n the day b r o k e , I went boldly into his
c h a m b e r , a n d s p o k e c o u r a g e o u s l y to h i m , calling him by n a m e in a hearty
t o n e , a n d inquiring how he h a d p a s s e d the night. S o you s e e h e would have
b e e n a very p r o f o u n d old m a n , i n de e d, to s u s p e c t that every night, j u s t at
twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
U p o n the eighth night I w a s m o r e than u s u a l l y c a u t i o u s in o p e n i n g the
door. A w a t c h ' s m i n u t e - h a n d m o v e s m o r e quickly than did m i n e . Never,
before that night, h a d I felt the extent of my own p o w e r s — o f my sagacity. I
c o u l d scarcely c o n t a i n my feelings of t r i u m p h . T o think that there I w a s ,
o p e n i n g the door, little by little, a n d the old m a n not even to d r e a m of my
secret d e e d s or t h o u g h t s . I fairly c h u c k l e d at the idea. A n d p e r h a p s the old
m a n h e a rd m e ; for he m o v e d in the b e d s u dde n l y , a s if startled. N o w you
m a y think that I drew b a c k — b u t n o . His r o o m w a s a s b l a c k a s pitch with
the thick d a r k n e s s , (for the s h u t t e r s were c l o s e f a s t e n e d , t h r o u g h fear of
robbers,) a n d so I knew that he c o u l d not s e e t he o p e n i n g of t he door, a n d
I kept on p u s h i n g it steadily, steadily.
I h a d got my h e a d in, a n d w a s a b o u t to o p e n the lantern, w h e n my t h u m b
slipped u p o n the tin f a s t e n i n g , a n d the old m a n s p r a n g u p in the b e d , crying
out—"Who's there?"
I kept q u i t e still a n d said nothing. F o r a n o t h e r h o u r I did not m o v e a
m u s c l e , a n d in the m e a n t i m e I did not h e a r the old m a n lie do w n . H e w a s
still sitting u p in the b e d , l i s t e n i n g ; — j u s t a s I have d o n e , night after night,
h e a r k e n i n g to the d e a t h - w a t c h e s 4 in the wall.
Presently I h e a rd a slight g r o a n , a n d I knew that it w a s t he g r o a n of mort al
terror. It w a s not a g r o a n of p a i n , or of g r i e f — o h , n o ! — i t w a s t he low, stifled
s o u n d that a ri s e s from the b o t t o m of the soul w h e n o v e r c h a r g e d with awe. I
knew the s o u n d well. M a n y a night, j u s t at mi dn i g h t , w h e n all the world
slept, it h a s welled u p from my own b o s o m , d e e p e n i n g , with its dreadful
e c h o , the terrors that di s t ra c t e d m e . I say I k n e w it well. I k n e w what t he old
m a n felt, a n d pitied h i m , a l t h o u g h I c h u c k l e d at heart. I knew that he h a d
b e e n lying a w a k e ever s i n c e the first slight n o i s e , w h e n h e h a d t u r n e d in the
b e d . H i s fears h a d b e e n , ever s i n c e , growing u p o n h i m. H e h a d b e e n trying
to fancy t h e m c a u s e l e s s , but c o u l d not. H e h a d b e e n s a y i n g to h i m s e l f — " I t
is n o t h i n g but the wind in the c h i m n e y — i t is only a m o u s e c r o s s i n g the
floor," or "it is merely a cricket which h a s m a d e a single c h i r p . " Y e s , h e h a d
b e e n trying to c o mf o rt h i ms e l f with t h e s e s u p p o s i t i o n s ; but h e h a d f o u n d all
in vain. All in vain; b e c a u s e d e a t h , in a p p r o a c h i n g t he old m a n , h a d stalked

4. Beetles that m a k e a hollow clicking s o u n d by striking their h e a d s a g a in s t the w o o d into which they
burrow.
 THE TELL-TALE HEART / 729

with his black s h a d o w before him, a n d the s h a d o w h a d n o w r e a c h e d a n d

enveloped the v i c t i m. 5 A n d it w a s the mo u rn f u l influence of t he u n p e r c e i v e d
s h a d o w that c a u s e d him to f e e l — a l t h o u g h h e neither saw nor h e a r d m e —
to feel the p r e s e n c e of my h e a d within the r o o m .
W h e n I h a d waited a long t i me , very patiently, without h e a r i n g the old
m a n lie d o w n , I resolved to o p e n a little—a very, very little crevice in the
lantern. S o I o p e n e d it—you c a n n o t i m a g i n e how stealthily, st ealt hily—unt il,
at length, a single di m ray, like the t hread of the spider, shot from o u t the
crevice a n d fell full u p o n the vulture eye.
It w a s o p e n — w i d e , wide o p e n — a n d I grew furious a s I g a z e d u p o n it. I
saw it with perfect d i s t i n c t n e s s — a l l a dull b l u e , with a h i d e o u s veil over it
that chilled the very ma r r o w in my b o n e s ; but I c o u l d s e e n o t h i n g e l s e of the
old m a n ' s f a c e or p e r s o n ; for I h a d direct ed the ray, a s if by instinct, precisely
u p o n the d a m n e d s p o t .
A n d n o w — h a v e I not told you that what you m i s t a k e for m a d n e s s is but
over a c u t e n e s s of the s e n s e s ? — n o w , I say, there c a m e to my ears a low, dull,
quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton.
I knew that s o u n d well, too. It w a s the b e a t i n g of t he old m a n ' s heart. It
i n c r e a s e d my fury, a s the b e a t i n g of a d r u m s t i mu l a t e s t he soldier into cour-
age.
B u t even yet I refrained a n d kept still. I scarcely b r e a t h e d . I held the
lantern m o t i o n l e s s . I tried how steadily I c o u l d m a i n t a i n the ray u p o n the
eye. M e a n t i m e the hellish t a t t o o 6 of the heart i n c r e a s e d . It grew q u i c k e r,
a n d l o u de r a n d louder every instant. T h e old m a n ' s terror must have b e e n
extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every m o m e n t : — d o you m a r k m e well?
I have told you that I a m n e r v o u s : — s o I a m . A n d now, at the d e a d h o u r of
night, a n d a m i d the dreadful s i l e n c e of that old h o u s e , s o s t r a n g e a n o i s e a s
this excited m e to u n c o n t r o l l a bl e w r a t h . 7 Yet, for s o m e m i n u t e s longer, I
refrained a n d kept still. B u t the be a t i n g grew louder, louder! I t h o u g h t t he
heart m u s t burst! A n d now a new anxiety seized m e — t h e s o u n d would b e
h e a rd by a neighbor! T h e old m a n ' s h o u r h a d c o m e ! With a lou d yell, I threw
o p e n the lantern a n d l e a p e d into the r o o m . H e shrieked o n c e — o n c e only.
In a n inst ant I d r a g g e d him to the floor, a n d pulled the heavy be d over h i m.
I then sat u p o n the b e d 8 a n d s m i l e d gaily, to find the d e e d s o far d o n e . B u t ,
for m a n y m i n u t e s , the heart be a t o n , with a muffled s o u n d . T h i s , however,
did not vex m e ; it w o u l d not be h e a rd t h r o u g h the walls. At length it c e a s e d .
T h e old m a n w a s d e a d . I r e mo v e d the b e d a n d e x a m i n e d the c o r p s e . Yes, he
was s t o n e , s t o n e d e a d . I p l a c e d my h a n d u p o n the heart a n d held it there
m a n y m i n u t e s . T h e r e w a s no p u l s a t i o n . T h e old m a n w a s s t o n e d e a d . H i s
eye would trouble me n o m o r e .
If, still, you think m e m a d , you will think so no longer w h e n I d e s c r i b e the
wise p r e c a u t i o n s I took for t he c o n c e a l m e n t of the body. T h e night w a n e d ,
a n d I worked hastily, b u t in s i l e n c e . First of all I d i s m e m b e r e d the c o r p s e . I
cut off the h e a d a n d t he a r m s a n d t he legs. I t hen t o o k up three p l a n k s from
the flooring of the c h a m b e r , a n d de p o s i t e d all be t w e e n the s c a n t l i n g s . 9 I t hen

5 . T h e 1 8 4 5 t e x t r e a d s : "All in vain; because 7. T h e 1 8 4 5 t e x t r e p l a c e s wrath w i t h " t e r r o r . "

D e a t h , in a p p r o a c h i n g h i m h a d s t a l k e d w i t h h i s 8. T h e 1 8 4 5 text l a c k s t he grisly detail of sitting
b l a c k s h a d o w b e f o r e h i m , a n d e n v e l o p e d t h e vic- on t h e b e d w h i l e s m i l i n g g a i l y ("I t h e n s m i l e d g a i l y ,
tim." to find t h e d e e d s o f a r d o n e . " ) .
6. D r u m b e a t . 9. Small planks.
730 / EDGAR ALLAN POE

r e p l a c e d the b o a r d s s o cleverly, s o cunningly, that n o h u m a n e y e — n o t even

his—could have d e t e c t e d anything w ro n g . T h e r e w a s n o t h i n g to w a s h o u t —
n o stain of any k i n d — n o blood-spot whatever. I h a d b e e n too wary for that.
A t u b h a d c a u g h t a l l — h a ! ha!
W h e n 1 h a d m a d e a n e n d of t h e s e labors, it w a s four o'clock—still da r k a s
midnight. As the bell s o u n d e d the hour, there c a m e a k n o c k i n g at the street
door. I went down to o p e n it with a light h e a r t , — f o r w h a t h a d I now to fear?
T h e r e ent ered three m e n , w h o i n t r o d u c e d t h e m s e l v e s , with perfect suavity,
as officers of the p o l i c e . A shriek h a d b e e n h e a rd by a n e i g h bo r du r i n g the
night; s u s p i c i o n of foul play h a d b e e n a r o u s e d ; information h a d b e e n lodged
at the police-office, a n d they (the officers) h a d b e e n d e p u t e d to s e a r c h t he
premises.
1 s m i l e d , — f o r what h a d I to fear? I b a d e the g e n t l e m e n w e l c o m e . T h e
shriek, I said, w a s my own in a d r e a m . T h e old m a n , I m e n t i o n e d , w a s a b s e n t
in the country. I took my visiters all over the h o u s e . I b a d e t h e m s e a r c h —
s e a r c h well. I led t h e m , at length, to his c h a m b e r . I s h o w e d t h e m his treas-
u r e s , s e c u r e , u n d i s t u r b e d . In the e n t h u s i a s m of my c o n f i d e n c e , I br o u g h t
chairs into the r o o m , a n d desired t h e m here to rest from their fat igu es; while
I myself, in the wild a u da c i t y of my perfect t r i u m p h , p l a c e d my own s e a t
u p o n the very spot b e n e a t h which r e p o s e d the c o r p s e of the victim.
T h e officers were satisfied. M y manner h a d c o n v i n c e d t h e m . I w a s sin-
gularly at e a s e . T h e y sat, a n d , while I a n s w e r e d cheerily, they c h a t t e d of
familiar things. B u t , ere long, I felt myself getting p a l e a n d w i s h e d t h e m
g o n e . My h e a d a c h e d , a n d I fancied a ringing in my e a r s : but still they sat
a n d still c h a t t e d . T h e ringing b e c a m e mo r e distinct: I talked m o r e freely, to
get rid of the feeling; but it c o n t i n u e d a n d g a i n e d de f i n i t i v e n e s s — u n t i l , at
length, I f o u n d that the n o i s e w a s wot within my e a r s .
N o d o u b t I now grew very p a l e ; — b u t I talked m o r e fluently, a n d with a
h e i g h t e n e d v o i c e . Yet the s o u n d i n c r e a s e d — a n d what c o u l d I do ? It w a s a
low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped
in cotton. I g a s p e d for b r e a t h — a n d yet the officers h e a rd it not. I talked m o r e
q u i c k l y — m o r e v e h e m e n t l y ; — b u t the n o i s e steadily i n c r e a s e d . I a r o s e , a n d
a r g u e d a b o u t trifles, in a high key a n d with violent g e s t i c u l a t i o n s ; — b u t the
noise steadily i n c r e a s e d. W h y woidd they not b e g o n e ? I p a c e d the floor to
a n d fro, with heavy strides, a s if excited to fury by the o bs e r v a t i o n s of the
m e n ; — b u t the noise steadily i n c r e a s e d . O h G o d ! what could I do? I foa-
m e d — I r a v e d— I swore! I s w u n g the c h a i r u p o n which I h a d sat, a n d grated
it u p o n the b o a r d s ; — b u t the n o i s e a r o s e over all a n d continually i n c r e a s e d .
It grew louder—louder—louder! A n d still the m e n c h a t t e d pleasantly, a n d
s mi l e d. W a s it p o s s i b l e they h e a r d not? Almighty G o d ! n o , n o ! T h e y h e a r d ! —
they s u s p e c t e d ! — t h e y knew!—they were m a k i n g a m o c k e r y of my h o r r o r ! —
this I t h o u g h t , a n d this I think. B u t a n y t h i n g better t h a n this agony! Anything
w a s m o r e tolerable than this derision! I c o u l d b e a r t h o s e hypocritical smiles
n o longer! I felt that I m u s t s c r e a m or d i e ! — a n d n o w — a g a i n ! — h a r k ! louder!
louder! louder! louder!—
"Villains!" I shriek ed, " d i s s e m b l e no m o r e ! I a d m i t the d e e d ! — t e a r u p the
p l a n k s ! — h e r e , h e r e ! — i t is the b e a t i n g of his h i d e o u s h e a r t ! "

1843