Page 1

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! One of his eyes resembled that 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 for ever.

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