The Telltale Heart

ÞE TELLTALE HEART

''By Edgar Allan Poe Went by Cascadia (þruced 1843)''

TREW!—ang—so, so dreadfully ang ic had been and am; but why wilt þu say þat ic am mad? Þe illness had scarpened mine anyets—not forspilt—not dulled hem. Abuf all was þe anyet of hearing scarp. Ice heard all þings in þe heafen and in þe earþ. Ic heard many þings in hell. Hu, þen, am ic mad? Harken! and behold hu healþily—hu coolly ic can tell þee þe hoal tale.

It is unmitely to say hu first þe þawt infared my brain; but onse born, it beset me day and nite. Grund þere was none. Hatred þere was none. Ic lufed þe old man. He had nefer harmed me. He had nefer yeafen me hux. For his gold ic had no list. Ic þink it was his eye! yes, it was þis! He had þe eye of a gripe—a wan hewn eye, wiþ a film ofer it. Whenefer it fell on me, my blood ran cold; and so by steps—full stepwise—ic made up my mind to nim þe life of þe old man, and þus rid myself of þe eye forefer.

Nu þis is þe þing. Þu þinkest me mad. Madmen know noþing. But þu scudst hafe seen me. Þu scudst haf seen hu wisely ic went on—wiþ what recking—wiþ what foresite—wiþ what wile ic went to work! Ic was nefer kinder to þe old man þan þroute þe hoal weke before ic slew him. And efery nite, abute midnite, Ice flipt þe lac of his dore and opened it—o so liþely! And þen, when ic had made an opening enuff for my head, ic put in a dark litefat, all closed, closed, so þat no lite scone ute, and þen ic stuck in my head. O, þu wudst haf laffed to see hu cunningly ic stuck it in! Ic scroþe it slowly—so, so slowly, so þat ic mite not unstill þe old mans sleep. Ic needed a stund to put my hoal head wiþin þe opening so far þat ic cud see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!—wud a madman haf been so wise as þis? And þen, when my head was well in þe room, ic undid þe litefat warily—o, so warily—warily (for þe hinges creaked)—ic undid it only so muc þat a lone þin beam fell upon þe gripes eye. And þis ic did for sefen long nites—efery nite rite at midnite—but ic fund þe eye always closed; and so it was unmitely to do þe work; for it was not þe old man ho teened me, but his Efel Eye. And efery morning, when þe day broke, ic went boldly into his room, and spoke dutily to him, cying him by name in a hearty pic, and asking hu he had spent þe nite. So þu seest he wud haf been a mity mindful old man, indeed, to inkel þat efery nite, rite at twelfe, ic looked in on him while he slept.

On þe eatþ nite ic was more þan wonly wary in opening þe dore. A waces smallhand scriþes more cwickly þan did mine. Nefer before þat nite had ic felt þe breadþ of mine own mite—of my wisdom. Ic cud hardly hold in my feelings of sie. To þink þat þere ic was, opening þe dore, littel by littel, and he not efen to faþom my hidden deeds or þawts. Ic fairly cuckeled at þe þawt; and maybe he heard me; for he scroþe on þe bed scortly, as if starteled. Nu þu maist þink þat ic drew back—but no. His room was as black as pic wiþ þe þick darkness, (for þe scutters were fastened nie, þro fear of reafers,) and so ic knew þat he cud not see þe opening of þe dore, and ic kept þrucing it on steadily, steadily.

Ic had my head in, and was abute to open þe litefat, when my þumb slipt on þe tin fastening, and þe old man sprang up in bed, rooping ute—“Ho’s þere?”

Ic kept full still and said noþing. For a hole stund ic did not scriþe a þew, and in þe meantime ic did not hear him lie dune. He was still sitting up in þe bed listening;—rite as ic haf done, nite after nite, harkening to þe deaþwaces in þe wall.

Ne ic heard a slite groan, and ic knew it was þe groan of deadly brow. It was not a groan of tray or of gnorn—o, no!—it was þe deep, deadened lude þat arises from þe bottom of þe sowl when oferfilled wiþ aye. Ic knew þe lude well. Many a nite, rite at midnite, when all þe world slept, it has welled up from mine own bosom, deepening, wiþ its dreadful ascill, þe brows þat held me. Ic say ic knew it well. Ic knew what þe old man felt, and felt sorry for him, alþaw ic cuckeled at heart. Ic knew þat he had been lying awake efer sinse þe first slite lude, when he had went in þe bed. His fears had been efer sinse growing up him. He had been fanding to þink hem grundless, but cud not. He had been saying to himself—”It is noþing but þe wind in þe flew—it is only a muse running þwares þe flore,” or “It is but a hillhoamer whic has made a lone cirp.” Yes, he had been fanding to cweem himself wiþ þese reasowings; but he had fund all bleadless. All bleadless; for þat Deaþ, in nearing him had stalked wiþ his black scadow before him, and beclipt þe tifer. And it was þe mornful sway of þe unseen scadow þat made him to feel—alþow he niþer saw nor heard—to feel þe naywist of my head wiþin þe room.

When ic had bidden a long time, full þildily, wiþute hearing him lie dune, ic made to open a littel—a full, full littel slit in þe litefat, So ic opened it—þu canst not faþom hu stealþily, stealþily—hent, at lengþ a lone dim beam, like þe a spiders þread, scot from ute þe slit and fell full upon þe gripes eye.

It was open—wide, wide open—and ic grew wroþ as ic stared at it. Ic saw it wiþ fulframed sundriness—all a dull hewn, wiþ an atel wimpel ofer it þat cilled þe marrow itself in my bones; but ic cud see noþing else of þe old mans anlet or body: for ic had minted þe beam as if by godly ken, rite on þe cursed spot.

And haf ic not told þee þat what þu misnimmest for madness is but oferscarpness of þe anyets?—nu, ic say, þere came to mine ears a soft, dull, cwick lude, suc as a wac makes when smoþered in wool. Ic knew þat lude well, too. It was þe beating of þe old mans heart. It greatened my wraþ, as a drums beating whets þe harman into dute.

But efen yet ic held back and kept still. Ic hardly breaþed. Ic held þe litefat full still. Ic waced hu steadily ic cud hold þe beam on þe eye. Meantime þe hellisc drumming of þe heart waxt. It grew cwicker and cwicker, luder and luder efery britom. Þe old mans brow must haf been great! It grew luder, ic say, luder efery eyeblink!—markest þu me well? Ic hafe told þee þat ic am ang; so ic am. And nu at þe dead stund of þe nite, amid þe dreadful stillness of þat old huse, so ferly a lude as þis whetted me to unrixenly brow. Yet, for sum time longer ic held back and stood still. But þe beating grew luder, luder! ic þawt þe heart must berst. And nu a new angness fanged me—þe lude wud be heard by a naybor! Þe old mans time had cum! Wiþ a lude yell, ic þrew open þe litefat and leapt into þe room. He screed onse—onse only. In an eyeblink ic þrew him to þe flore, and pulled þe heafy bed ofer him. Ic þen smirked winfully, to find þe deed so far done. But, for a good tide, þe heart beat on wiþ a smoþered lude. Þis, huefer, did not teen me; it wud not be heard þro þe wall. At lengþ it stopt. Þe old man was dead. Ic drew back þe bed and smayed þe lic. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. Ic put my hand ofer þe heart and held it þere for a time. Þere was no beating. He was stone dead. His eye wud swenc me no more.

If þu still þinkest me mad, þu wilt þink so no longer when ic rec þe wise forewits ic made for þe bodys hiding. Þe nite waned, and ic worked speedily, but wiþute lude. First of all ic toliþed þe lic. Ic sniþed off þe head and þe arms and þe scanks.

Ic þen lifted up þree þills from þe floring of þe room, and stowed all between þe timbers. Ic þen put back þe boards so cleferly, so cunningly, þat no manly eye—not efen his—cud haf fund any þing amiss. Þere was noþing to wasc ute—no wem of any kind—no bloodspot whatefer. Ic had been too wary for þat. A fat had fanged all—ha! ha!

When ic had made an end of þese swinks, it was fore in þe morning—still dark as midnite. As þe bell told þe tide, þere came a knocking at þe street dore. Ic went dune to open it wiþ a lite heart,—for what had ic nu to fear? Þere infared þree weres, who brawt hemselfes in as sceriffs of þe scire. A scree had been heard by a naybor in þe nite; inkeling of fule play had been tended; abreasting had been yeafen at hir wicken, and hy (þe sceriffs) had been told to seec þe grunds.

Ic smirked,—for what had ic to fear? Ic bade þe good men welcum. Þe scree, ic said, was mine own in a swefen. Þe old man, ic nemmened, was away in þe upland. Ic brawt my cumlings all ofer þe huse. Ic bade hem seec—seec well. Ic led hem, at lengþ, to his room. Ic scowed hem his maþoms, sicker, unstirred. In þe list of my beeld, ic brawt selds into þe room, and bade hem here to rest from hir wearinesses, while ic myself, in þe wild brasenness of my fulframed sie, set mine own seat on þe spot itself beneaþ whic rested my tifers lic.

Þe sceriffs were cweemed. My þewfastness had won hem ofer. Ic was sundrily at eaþ. Hy sat, and while ic answered bliþely, hy catted of cooþ þings. But, ere long, ic felt myself yetting wan and wisced hem gone. My head aked, and ic faþomed a ringing in mine ears: but still hy sat and still hy catted. Þe ringing became more suttel:—it went on and became more suttel: ic talked more freely to rid myself of þe feeling: but it went on and became sutteler and sutteler—hent, at lengþ, ic fund þat þe lude was not wiþin mine ears.

No twee ic nu grew mity wan;—but ic talked more flowingly, and wiþ a hiþened stefen. Yet þe lude waxt—and what cud ic do? It was a soft, dull, cwick lude—muc suc a lude as a wac makes when smoþered in wool. Ic fawt for breaþ—and yet þe sceriffs heard it not. Ic talked more cwickly—more aferly; but þe lude steadily waxt. Ic arose and flited abute small þings, in a hy pic and wiþ heast wafes and tokens; but þe lude steadily waxt. Why wud hy not be gone? Ic walked þe flore to and fro wiþ heafy strides, as if whetted to wraþ by þe cweaþings of þe weres—but þe lude steadily waxt. O God! What cud ic do? Ic foamed—ic rooped—ic swore! Ic swung þe seld upon whic ic had been sitting, and grund it upon þe boards, but þe lude arose ofer all and steadily waxt. It grew luder—luder—luder! And still þe weres catted winsumly, and smirked. Was it mitely hy heard not? Almity God!—no, no! Hy heard!—hy inkeled!—hy knew!—hy were making a hux of my brow!—þis ic þawt, and þis ic þink. But anyþing was better þan þis sussel! Anyþing was more þolenly þan þis hooker! Ic cud bear þose licetting smirks no longer! Ic felt þat ic must roop or swelt!—and nu—ayen!—hark! luder! luder! luder! luder!—

“Defels!” ic screed, “licet no more! Ic andet þe deed!—tear up þe þills!—here, here!—it is þe beating of his atel heart!”