| abstract
| - The Tell-Tale Heart is a 19th century story written by Edgar Allan Poe. It was first published in 1843. It follows an unnamed narrator who insists on his sanity after murdering an old man with a "vulture eye". The murder is carefully calculated, and the murderer hides the dead body by dismembering it and hiding it under the floorboards. Ultimately the narrator's guilt manifests itself in the hallucination that the man's heart is still beating under the floorboards. It is unclear what relationship, if any, the old man and his murderer share. It has been suggested that the old man is a father figure, or whether the narrator works for the old man as a servant, perhaps, that his vulture eye represents some sort of veiled secret, or power. The ambiguity and lack of details about the two main characters stand in stark contrast to the specific plot details leading up to the murder. The story was first published in James Russell Lowell's The Pioneer in January 1843. "The Tell-Tale Heart" is widely considered a classic of the Gothic fiction genre and one of Poe's most famous short stories.
- by Edgar Allan Poe TRUE! nervous, pretty, pretty dreadfully edgy I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The sickness had sharpened my [senses], not fordone, not dulled them. Above all was the [sense] of hearing sharp. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and underlook how healthily, how coolly, I can tell you the whole tale. It is unmaybesome to say how first the thought got in my brain, but, once forseeded, it ghosted me day and night. Gainstand there was none. Strong feeling there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me slur. For his gold I had no wish. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes looked like that of a geir -- a wan blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by heights, pretty step by step, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever. Now this is the [point]. You believe me to be mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I forfared -- with what care -- with what foresight, with what swiking, 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 softly! And then, when I had made an opening enough for my head, I put in a dark lightdecker all shut, shut 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 shrithed it slowly, pretty, pretty slowly, so that I might not dreef the old man's sleep. It took me a longlog to put 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 lightdecker carefully -- oh, so carefully -- carefully (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that only one thin ray fell upon the geir eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always shut, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who aballow me but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the room and spoke boldly to him, calling him by name in a hearty [tone], and asking how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a pretty deep old man, indeed , to underfeel that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night I was more than most often careful in opening the door. A watch's shortlog hand shrithes more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the lenght of my own might, of my wit. I could barely hold my feelings of win. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my hidden deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the thought, and maybe he heard me, for he shrithed on the bed hastily 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 shut fastened through fear of thieves), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept thrusting it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lightdeck, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening , and the old man sprang up in the bed, shouting, "Who's there?" I kept rather still and said nothing. For a whole longlog I did not shrithing a thew, and in the midtime 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. As of now, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of deadly dread. It was not a groan of ache or of mourning -- oh, no! It was the low deadened din that arises from the bottom of the soul when overloaded with awe. I knew the din well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful witherclank, the dreads that offminded me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and ruthed him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight din when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to think of them as wertheless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, "It is nothing but the wind in the [chimney], it is only a mouse overstriding the floor," or, "It is [merely] a grasshopper which has made only one chirp." Yes he has been forseeking to forver himself with these guesses ; but he had found all for nothing. ALL FOR NOTHING, for Death in drawing near him had stalked with his black shadow before him and bewrapped the [victim]. And it was the mournful sway of the unongotten shadow that werthed him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the bybe of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time pretty thildly without hearing him lie down, I bychose to open a little -- a pretty, pretty little gap in the lightdeck. So I opened it -- you cannot forestell how stealthily, stealthily -- until at length only one dim beam like the thread of the spider shot out from the gap and fell upon the geir eye. It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew wrathful as I gazed upon it. I saw it with flawless [distinctness] -- all a dull blue with a hidesome wimple over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man's nebb or body, for I had bewarded the beam as if by whim right upon the loathsome spot. And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-sharpness of the [senses]? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick din, such as a watch makes when bewrapped in wortwool. I knew that din well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It eked my wrath as the beating of a drum kittles the hereman into boldness. But even yet I forebore and kept still. I scantily breathed. I held the lightdeck still. I forsought how steadily I could keep the beam upon the eye. Midtime the hellish drumbeat of the heart eked. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every blinktime. The old man's dread must have been utmost! It grew louder, I say, louder every breakwhile! -- do you mark me well? I have told you that I am edgy: so I am. And now at the dead time of the night, amid the dreadful stillness of that old house, so odd a din as this thrilled me to unholdable dread. Yet, for some shortlogs longer I forebore and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new worry grabbed me -- the din would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's time had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lightdeck and leaped into the room. He shrieked once -- once only. In a blinktime I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled merrily, to find the deed so far done. But for many shortlogs the heart beat on with a deadened din. This, however, did not abellow me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it halted. The old man was dead. I took out the bed and undersought the dead body. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I put my hand upon the heart and held it there many shortlogs. There was no beat. He was stone dead. His eye would dretch me no more. If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I bewrite the wise forecare I took for the hiding of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in stillness. I took up three boards from the flooring of the room, and put all between the [scantlings]. I then insteadened the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no mennish eye -- not even his -- could have found out anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out -- no stain of any kind -- no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. When I had made an end of these works, it was four o'stounder -- still dark as midnight. As the bell rang the longlog, 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 got in three men, who made known themselves, with flawless smoothness, as beadles of the law-warden. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour bewhile the night; underfeel of foul play had been stirred; kennstuff had been lodged at the law-warden ambight, and they (the beadles) had been draught up to seek through the toft. I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the athelmen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I spoke of, was offward in the folkland. I took my beseekers all over the house. I bade them seek – seek through well. I led them, at length, to his room. I showed them his dearworthness, sound, undreefed. In the troth-heat of my afasting, I brought seats into the room, and wished them here to rest from their weariness, while I myself, in the wild daring of my flawless win, put my own seat upon the swithe spot beneath which rested the dead body of the [victim]. The beatles were befrithed. My LUND had withwon them. I was above all at eath. They sat and while I answered merrily, they chatted of kithy things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting wan and wished them gone. My head ached, and I forstelled a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more [distinct] : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it went on and got markedness -- until, at length, I found that the din was NOT within my ears. No ink I now grew MIGHTY wan; but I talked more smoothly, and with a heightened steven. Yet the din eked -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK DIN -- MUCH SUCH A DIN AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN BEWRAPPED IN WORTWOOL. I gasped for breath, and yet the beadles heard it not. I talked more quickly, more hardspunly but the din steadily eked. I arose and squabbled about paltries, in a high key and with hest yebears; but the din steadily eked. Why WOULD they not be gone? I stepped the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if thrilled to wrath by the underquotes of the men, but the din steadily eked. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed -- I ranted -- I swore! I swung the seat upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the din arose over all and ongoingly eked. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted quemely , and smiled. Was it maybesome they heard not? Almighty God! -- no, no? They heard! -- they underfelt! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a geck of my dread! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this dretch! Anything was more bearable than this [derision]! I could bear those twiwaysome smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! -- "Scoundrels!" I shrieked, "atlike no more! I acknowledge the deed! -- tear up the boards! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of his hidesome heart!" WinterWind 14:21, May 9, 2012 (UTC)
- 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—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 neighbor! 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 neighbor 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!"
- The story is told in the first-person by an unnamed narrator who murders an old man, also unnamed. It is unclear what the relationship is between the narrator and his murder victim. It has been suggested that the murder victim is the narrator's father or that the narrator is the old man's servant. The two appear to have lived in the same house. The narrator describes smothering the old man to death, hearing the unusually loud beating of the old man's heart while doing so, cutting up the body and hiding it under the floorboards. The narrator carefully hides any trace of the crime, however, a neighbor hears the old man scream and calls the police. When some police officers arrive, the narrator tells them that he was the one who screamed because he was having a nightmare. He tells them that the old man is away and invites them to look around. While the police officers are inside the house the narrator starts to hear a sound which he believes is becoming increasingly louder, although the police officers can not hear it. The narrator believes that it is the old man's heart still beating under the floorboards, giving away the secret of his crime. Unable to bear the sound any longer, the narator confesses to the murder and tells the police officers that they will find the old man's body parts beneath the floorboards. The narrator of the tale insists that he is not mad, just very nervous.
- The Tell-Tale Heart is a 1966 long-playing record by Hanna-Barbera Records. On the record, William Castle reads the 1843 short story by Edgar Allan Poe. Unlike other Hanna-Barbera albums, it contains no songs.
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