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The Collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe Raven Edition,
Volume II
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 ***, 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 eve. 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!"
BERENICE
Dicebant mihi sodales, si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas
meas aliquantulum forelevatas.
—_Ebn Zaiat_.
MISERY is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching
the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of
that arch—as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the
wide horizon as the rainbow! How is it that from beauty I have derived
a type of unloveliness?—from the covenant of peace, a simile of sorrow?
But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of
joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of
to-day, or the agonies which _are_, have their origin in the ecstasies
which _might have been_.
My baptismal name is Egaeus; that of my family I will not mention. Yet
there are no towers in the land more time-honored than my gloomy, gray,
hereditary halls. Our line has been called a race of visionaries; and
in many striking particulars—in the character of the family
mansion—in the frescos of the chief saloon—in the tapestries of the
dormitories—in the chiselling of some buttresses in the armory—but
more especially in the gallery of antique paintings—in the fashion of
the library chamber—and, lastly, in the very peculiar nature of the
library's contents—there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant
the belief.
The recollections of my earliest years are connected with that chamber,
and with its volumes—of which latter I will say no more. Here died my
mother. Herein was I born. But it is mere idleness to say that I had not
lived before—that the soul has no previous existence. You deny it?—let
us not argue the matter. Convinced myself, I seek not to convince. There
is, however, a remembrance of aerial forms—of spiritual and meaning
eyes—of sounds, musical yet sad—a remembrance which will not be
excluded; a memory like a shadow—vague, variable, indefinite, unsteady;
and like a shadow, too, in the impossibility of my getting rid of it
while the sunlight of my reason shall exist.
In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking from the long night of what
seemed, but was not, nonentity, at once into the very regions of fairy
land—into a palace of imagination—into the wild dominions of monastic
thought and erudition—it is not singular that I gazed around me with a
startled and ardent eye—that I loitered away my boyhood in books,
and dissipated my youth in reverie; but it _is_ singular that as years
rolled away, and the noon of manhood found me still in the mansion of my
fathers—it _is_ wonderful what stagnation there fell upon the springs
of my life—wonderful how total an inversion took place in the character
of my commonest thought. The realities of the world affected me as
visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams
became, in turn, not the material of my every-day existence, but in very
deed that existence utterly and solely in itself.
Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my paternal
halls. Yet differently we grew—I, ill of health, and buried in
gloom—she, agile, graceful, and overflowing with energy; hers, the
ramble on the hill-side—mine the studies of the cloister; I, living
within my own heart, and addicted, body and soul, to the most intense
and painful meditation—she, roaming carelessly through life, with
no thought of the shadows in her path, or the silent flight of the
raven-winged hours. Berenice!—I call upon her name—Berenice!—and
from the gray ruins of memory a thousand tumultuous recollections are
startled at the sound! Ah, vividly is her image before me now, as in the
early days of her light-heartedness and joy! Oh, gorgeous yet fantastic
beauty! Oh, sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim! Oh, Naiad among its
fountains! And then—then all is mystery and terror, and a tale which
should not be told. Disease—a fatal disease, fell like the simoon upon
her frame; and, even while I gazed upon her, the spirit of change swept
over her, pervading her mind, her habits, and her character, and, in a
manner the most subtle and terrible, disturbing even the identity of
her person! Alas! the destroyer came and went!—and the victim—where is
she? I knew her not—or knew her no longer as Berenice.
Among the numerous train of maladies superinduced by that fatal and
primary one which effected a revolution of so horrible a kind in the
moral and physical being of my cousin, may be mentioned as the most
distressing and obstinate in its nature, a species of epilepsy not
unfrequently terminating in _trance_ itself—trance very nearly
resembling positive dissolution, and from which her manner of recovery
was in most instances, startlingly abrupt. In the mean time my own
disease—for I have been told that I should call it by no other
appellation—my own disease, then, grew rapidly upon me, and assumed
finally a monomaniac character of a novel and extraordinary form—hourly
and momently gaining vigor—and at length obtaining over me the most
incomprehensible ascendancy. This monomania, if I must so term it,
consisted in a morbid irritability of those properties of the mind in
metaphysical science termed the _attentive_. It is more than probable
that I am not understood; but I fear, indeed, that it is in no manner
possible to convey to the mind of the merely general reader, an adequate
idea of that nervous _intensity of interest_ with which, in my case,
the powers of meditation (not to speak technically) busied and buried
themselves, in the contemplation of even the most ordinary objects of
the universe.
To muse for long unwearied hours, with my attention riveted to some
frivolous device on the margin, or in the typography of a book; to
become absorbed, for the better part of a summer's day, in a quaint
shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry or upon the floor; to lose
myself, for an entire night, in watching the steady flame of a lamp,
or the embers of a fire; to dream away whole days over the perfume of a
flower; to repeat, monotonously, some common word, until the sound, by
dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the
mind; to lose all sense of motion or physical existence, by means of
absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in: such
were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries induced by a
condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed, altogether unparalleled,
but certainly bidding defiance to anything like analysis or explanation.
Yet let me not be misapprehended. The undue, earnest, and morbid
attention thus excited by objects in their own nature frivolous, must
not be confounded in character with that ruminating propensity common
to all mankind, and more especially indulged in by persons of ardent
imagination. It was not even, as might be at first supposed, an extreme
condition, or exaggeration of such propensity, but primarily and
essentially distinct and different. In the one instance, the dreamer,
or enthusiast, being interested by an object usually _not_ frivolous,
imperceptibly loses sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions
and suggestions issuing therefrom, until, at the conclusion of a day
dream _often replete with luxury_, he finds the _incitamentum_, or first
cause of his musings, entirely vanished and forgotten. In my case, the
primary object was _invariably frivolous_, although assuming, through
the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and unreal importance.
Few deductions, if any, were made; and those few pertinaciously
returning in upon the original object as a centre. The meditations were
_never_ pleasurable; and, at the termination of the reverie, the first
cause, so far from being out of sight, had attained that supernaturally
exaggerated interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In
a word, the powers of mind more particularly exercised were, with me, as
I have said before, the _attentive_, and are, with the day-dreamer, the
_speculative_.
My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually serve to irritate the
disorder, partook, it will be perceived, largely, in their imaginative
and inconsequential nature, of the characteristic qualities of the
disorder itself. I well remember, among others, the treatise of the
noble Italian, Coelius Secundus Curio, "_De Amplitudine Beati Regni
Dei;_" St. Austin's great work, the "City of God;" and Tertullian's "_De
Carne Christi_," in which the paradoxical sentence "_Mortuus est Dei
filius; credible est quia ineptum est: et sepultus resurrexit; certum
est quia impossibile est,_" occupied my undivided time, for many weeks
of laborious and fruitless investigation.
Thus it will appear that, shaken from its balance only by trivial
things, my reason bore resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of by
Ptolemy Hephestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of human
violence, and the fiercer fury of the waters and the winds, trembled
only to the touch of the flower called Asphodel. And although, to
a careless thinker, it might appear a matter beyond doubt, that the
alteration produced by her unhappy malady, in the _moral_ condition of
Berenice, would afford me many objects for the exercise of that intense
and abnormal meditation whose nature I have been at some trouble in
explaining, yet such was not in any degree the case. In the lucid
intervals of my infirmity, her calamity, indeed, gave me pain, and,
taking deeply to heart that total wreck of her fair and gentle life, I
did not fail to ponder, frequently and bitterly, upon the wonder-working
means by which so strange a revolution had been so suddenly brought
to pass. But these reflections partook not of the idiosyncrasy of
my disease, and were such as would have occurred, under similar
circumstances, to the ordinary mass of mankind. True to its own
character, my disorder revelled in the less important but more startling
changes wrought in the _physical_ frame of Berenice—in the singular and
most appalling distortion of her personal identity.
During the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely I had
never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings with
me, _had never been_ of the heart, and my passions _always were_ of the
mind. Through the gray of the early morning—among the trellised shadows
of the forest at noonday—and in the silence of my library at night—she
had flitted by my eyes, and I had seen her—not as the living and
breathing Berenice, but as the Berenice of a dream; not as a being of
the earth, earthy, but as the abstraction of such a being; not as a
thing to admire, but to analyze; not as an object of love, but as
the theme of the most abstruse although desultory speculation. And
_now_—now I shuddered in her presence, and grew pale at her approach;
yet, bitterly lamenting her fallen and desolate condition, I called to
mind that she had loved me long, and, in an evil moment, I spoke to her
of marriage.
And at length the period of our nuptials was approaching, when, upon
an afternoon in the winter of the year—one of those unseasonably
warm, calm, and misty days which are the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon
(*1),—I sat, (and sat, as I thought, alone,) in the inner apartment of
the library. But, uplifting my eyes, I saw that Berenice stood before
me.
Was it my own excited imagination—or the misty influence of the
atmosphere—or the uncertain twilight of the chamber—or the gray
draperies which fell around her figure—that caused in it so vacillating
and indistinct an outline? I could not tell. She spoke no word; and
I—not for worlds could I have uttered a syllable. An icy chill ran
through my frame; a sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me; a
consuming curiosity pervaded my soul; and sinking back upon the chair,
I remained for some time breathless and motionless, with my eyes riveted
upon her person. Alas! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige
of the former being lurked in any single line of the contour. My burning
glances at length fell upon the face.
The forehead was high, and very pale, and singularly placid; and the
once jetty hair fell partially over it, and overshadowed the hollow
temples with innumerable ringlets, now of a vivid yellow, and jarring
discordantly, in their fantastic character, with the reigning melancholy
of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless, and lustreless, and
seemingly pupilless, and I shrank involuntarily from their glassy stare
to the contemplation of the thin and shrunken lips. They parted; and in a
smile of peculiar meaning, _the teeth_ of the changed Berenice disclosed
themselves slowly to my view. Would to God that I had never beheld them,
or that, having done so, I had died!
The shutting of a door disturbed me, and, looking up, I found that my
cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the disordered chamber
of my brain, had not, alas! departed, and would not be driven away,
the white and ghastly _spectrum_ of the teeth. Not a speck on their
surface—not a shade on their enamel—not an indenture in their
edges—but what that period of her smile had sufficed to brand in upon
my memory. I saw them _now_ even more unequivocally than I beheld
them _then_. The teeth!—the teeth!—they were here, and there, and
everywhere, and visibly and palpably before me; long, narrow, and
excessively white, with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the
very moment of their first terrible development. Then came the full
fury of my _monomania_, and I struggled in vain against its strange and
irresistible influence. In the multiplied objects of the external world
I had no thoughts but for the teeth. For these I longed with a phrenzied
desire. All other matters and all different interests became absorbed in
their single contemplation. They—they alone were present to the mental
eye, and they, in their sole individuality, became the essence of
my mental life. I held them in every light. I turned them in every
attitude. I surveyed their characteristics. I dwelt upon their
peculiarities. I pondered upon their conformation. I mused upon the
alteration in their nature. I shuddered as I assigned to them in
imagination a sensitive and sentient power, and even when unassisted by
the lips, a capability of moral expression. Of Mademoiselle Salle it
has been well said, "_Que tous ses pas etaient des sentiments_," and
of Berenice I more seriously believed _que toutes ses dents etaient des
idees_. _Des idees!_—ah here was the idiotic thought that destroyed me!
_Des idees!_—ah _therefore_ it was that I coveted them so madly! I felt
that their possession could alone ever restore me to peace, in giving me
back to reason.
And the evening closed in upon me thus—and then the darkness came, and
tarried, and went—and the day again dawned—and the mists of a second
night were now gathering around—and still I sat motionless in that
solitary room—and still I sat buried in meditation—and still the
_phantasma_ of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy, as, with
the most vivid hideous distinctness, it floated about amid the changing
lights and shadows of the chamber. At length there broke in upon my
dreams a cry as of horror and dismay; and thereunto, after a pause,
succeeded the sound of troubled voices, intermingled with many low
moanings of sorrow or of pain. I arose from my seat, and throwing open
one of the doors of the library, saw standing out in the ante-chamber
a servant maiden, all in tears, who told me that Berenice was—no more!
She had been seized with epilepsy in the early morning, and now, at the
closing in of the night, the grave was ready for its tenant, and all the
preparations for the burial were completed.
I found myself sitting in the library, and again sitting there alone. It
seemed that I had newly awakened from a confused and exciting dream.
I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well aware, that since the
setting of the sun, Berenice had been interred. But of that dreary
period which intervened I had no positive, at least no definite
comprehension. Yet its memory was replete with horror—horror more
horrible from being vague, and terror more terrible from ambiguity. It
was a fearful page in the record my existence, written all over with
dim, and hideous, and unintelligible recollections. I strived to
decypher them, but in vain; while ever and anon, like the spirit of a
departed sound, the shrill and piercing shriek of a female voice seemed
to be ringing in my ears. I had done a deed—what was it? I asked myself
the question aloud, and the whispering echoes of the chamber answered
me,—"_what was it?_"
On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a little box. It
was of no remarkable character, and I had seen it frequently before, for
it was the property of the family physician; but how came it _there_,
upon my table, and why did I shudder in regarding it? These things were
in no manner to be accounted for, and my eyes at length dropped to the
open pages of a book, and to a sentence underscored therein. The words
were the singular but simple ones of the poet Ebn Zaiat:—"_Dicebant
mihi sodales si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas aliquantulum
fore levatas_." Why then, as I perused them, did the hairs of my head
erect themselves on end, and the blood of my body become congealed
within my veins?
There came a light tap at the library door—and, pale as the tenant of a
tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe. His looks were wild with terror,
and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky, and very low. What said
he?—some broken sentences I heard. He told of a wild cry disturbing the
silence of the night—of the gathering together of the household—of
a search in the direction of the sound; and then his tones grew
thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of a violated grave—of
a disfigured body enshrouded, yet still breathing—still palpitating—_still alive_!
He pointed to garments;—they were muddy and clotted with gore. I spoke
not, and he took me gently by the hand: it was indented with the impress
of human nails. He directed my attention to some object against the
wall. I looked at it for some minutes: it was a spade. With a shriek I
bounded to the table, and grasped the box that lay upon it. But I could
not force it open; and in my tremor, it slipped from my hands, and fell
heavily, and burst into pieces; and from it, with a rattling sound,
there rolled out some instruments of dental surgery, intermingled with
thirty-two small, white and ivory-looking substances that were scattered
to and fro about the floor.
ELEONORA
Sub conservatione formae specificae salva anima.
_ Raymond Lully_.
I AM come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men
have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether
madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence—whether much that is
glorious—whether all that is profound—does not spring from disease
of thought—from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general
intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which
escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain
glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they
have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn
something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge
which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless
into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable," and again, like the
adventures of the Nubian geographer, "agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid
in eo esset exploraturi."
We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two
distinct conditions of my mental existence—the condition of a lucid
reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory of events
forming the first epoch of my life—and a condition of shadow and doubt,
appertaining to the present, and to the recollection of what constitutes
the second great era of my being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the
earlier period, believe; and to what I may relate of the later time,
give only such credit as may seem due, or doubt it altogether, or, if
doubt it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the Oedipus.
She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly and distinctly
these remembrances, was the sole daughter of the only sister of my
mother long departed. Eleonora was the name of my cousin. We had
always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the
Many-Colored Grass. No unguided footstep ever came upon that vale; for
it lay away up among a range of giant hills that hung beetling around
about it, shutting out the sunlight from its sweetest recesses. No path
was trodden in its vicinity; and, to reach our happy home, there was
need of putting back, with force, the foliage of many thousands of
forest trees, and of crushing to death the glories of many millions of
fragrant flowers. Thus it was that we lived all alone, knowing nothing
of the world without the valley—I, and my cousin, and her mother.
From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our
encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than
all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily about in mazy
courses, it passed away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills
still dimmer than those whence it had issued. We called it the "River
of Silence"; for there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow.
No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the
pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its ***,
stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old
station, shining on gloriously forever.
The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling rivulets that glided
through devious ways into its channel, as well as the spaces that
extended from the margins away down into the depths of the streams until
they reached the bed of pebbles at the bottom,—these spots, not less
than the whole surface of the valley, from the river to the mountains
that girdled it in, were carpeted all by a soft green grass, thick,
short, perfectly even, and vanilla-perfumed, but so besprinkled
throughout with the yellow buttercup, the white daisy, the purple
violet, and the ruby-red asphodel, that its exceeding beauty spoke to
our hearts in loud tones, of the love and of the glory of God.
And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like wildernesses of
dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall slender stems stood not
upright, but slanted gracefully toward the light that peered at noon-day
into the centre of the valley. Their mark was speckled with the vivid
alternate splendor of ebony and silver, and was smoother than all save
the cheeks of Eleonora; so that, but for the brilliant green of the huge
leaves that spread from their summits in long, tremulous lines, dallying
with the Zephyrs, one might have fancied them giant serpents of Syria
doing homage to their sovereign the Sun.
Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, roamed I with
Eleonora before Love entered within our hearts. It was one evening at
the close of the third lustrum of her life, and of the fourth of my own,
that we sat, locked in each other's embrace, beneath the serpent-like
trees, and looked down within the water of the River of Silence at our
images therein. We spoke no words during the rest of that sweet day, and
our words even upon the morrow were tremulous and few. We had drawn the
God Eros from that wave, and now we felt that he had enkindled within us
the fiery souls of our forefathers. The passions which had for centuries
distinguished our race, came thronging with the fancies for which they
had been equally noted, and together breathed a delirious bliss over
the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. A change fell upon all things.
Strange, brilliant flowers, star-shaped, burn out upon the trees
where no flowers had been known before. The tints of the green carpet
deepened; and when, one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there
sprang up in place of them, ten by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. And
life arose in our paths; for the tall flamingo, hitherto unseen, with
all gay glowing birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us. The
golden and silver fish haunted the river, out of the *** of which
issued, little by little, a murmur that swelled, at length, into a
lulling melody more divine than that of the harp of ***-sweeter than
all save the voice of Eleonora. And now, too, a voluminous cloud, which
we had long watched in the regions of Hesper, floated out thence, all
gorgeous in crimson and gold, and settling in peace above us, sank, day
by day, lower and lower, until its edges rested upon the tops of the
mountains, turning all their dimness into magnificence, and shutting us
up, as if forever, within a magic prison-house of grandeur and of glory.
The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim; but she was a
maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among the
flowers. No guile disguised the fervor of love which animated her heart,
and she examined with me its inmost recesses as we walked together
in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, and discoursed of the mighty
changes which had lately taken place therein.
At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last sad change
which must befall Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only upon this one
sorrowful theme, interweaving it into all our converse, as, in the songs
of the bard of Schiraz, the same images are found occurring, again and
again, in every impressive variation of phrase.
She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her ***—that, like the
ephemeron, she had been made perfect in loveliness only to die; but
the terrors of the grave to her lay solely in a consideration which she
revealed to me, one evening at twilight, by the banks of the River of
Silence. She grieved to think that, having entombed her in the Valley
of the Many-Colored Grass, I would quit forever its happy recesses,
transferring the love which now was so passionately her own to some
maiden of the outer and everyday world. And, then and there, I threw
myself hurriedly at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to
herself and to Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to any
daughter of Earth—that I would in no manner prove recreant to her dear
memory, or to the memory of the devout affection with which she had
blessed me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe to witness the
pious solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I invoked of Him and
of her, a saint in Helusion should I prove traitorous to that promise,
involved a penalty the exceeding great horror of which will not permit
me to make record of it here. And the bright eyes of Eleonora grew
brighter at my words; and she sighed as if a deadly burthen had been
taken from her breast; and she trembled and very bitterly wept; but she
made acceptance of the vow, (for what was she but a child?) and it made
easy to her the bed of her death. And she said to me, not many days
afterward, tranquilly dying, that, because of what I had done for
the comfort of her spirit she would watch over me in that spirit when
departed, and, if so it were permitted her return to me visibly in the
watches of the night; but, if this thing were, indeed, beyond the power
of the souls in Paradise, that she would, at least, give me frequent
indications of her presence, sighing upon me in the evening winds, or
filling the air which I breathed with perfume from the censers of the
angels. And, with these words upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent
life, putting an end to the first epoch of my own.
Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in Time's
path, formed by the death of my beloved, and proceed with the second
era of my existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over my brain, and I
mistrust the perfect sanity of the record. But let me on.—Years dragged
themselves along heavily, and still I dwelled within the Valley of the
Many-Colored Grass; but a second change had come upon all things. The
star-shaped flowers shrank into the stems of the trees, and appeared no
more. The tints of the green carpet faded; and, one by one, the ruby-red
asphodels withered away; and there sprang up, in place of them, ten
by ten, dark, eye-like violets, that writhed uneasily and were ever
encumbered with dew. And Life departed from our paths; for the tall
flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage before us, but flew
sadly from the vale into the hills, with all the gay glowing birds that
had arrived in his company. And the golden and silver fish swam down
through the gorge at the lower end of our domain and bedecked the sweet
river never again. And the lulling melody that had been softer than
the wind-harp of ***, and more divine than all save the voice of
Eleonora, it died little by little away, in murmurs growing lower and
lower, until the stream returned, at length, utterly, into the solemnity
of its original silence. And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose,
and, abandoning the tops of the mountains to the dimness of old, fell
back into the regions of Hesper, and took away all its manifold golden
and gorgeous glories from the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass.
Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten; for I heard the sounds
of the swinging of the censers of the angels; and streams of a holy
perfume floated ever and ever about the valley; and at lone hours, when
my heart beat heavily, the winds that bathed my brow came unto me laden
with soft sighs; and indistinct murmurs filled often the night air, and
once—oh, but once only! I was awakened from a slumber, like the slumber
of death, by the pressing of spiritual lips upon my own.
But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to be filled. I longed
for the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At length the
valley pained me through its memories of Eleonora, and I left it for
ever for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of the world.
I found myself within a strange city, where all things might have served
to blot from recollection the sweet dreams I had dreamed so long in the
Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. The pomps and pageantries of a stately
court, and the mad clangor of arms, and the radiant loveliness of women,
bewildered and intoxicated my brain. But as yet my soul had proved true
to its vows, and the indications of the presence of Eleonora were still
given me in the silent hours of the night. Suddenly these manifestations
they ceased, and the world grew dark before mine eyes, and I stood
aghast at the burning thoughts which possessed, at the terrible
temptations which beset me; for there came from some far, far distant
and unknown land, into the gay court of the king I served, a maiden to
whose beauty my whole recreant heart yielded at once—at whose footstool
I bowed down without a struggle, in the most ardent, in the most abject
worship of love. What, indeed, was my passion for the young girl of
the valley in comparison with the fervor, and the delirium, and the
spirit-lifting ecstasy of adoration with which I poured out my whole
soul in tears at the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde?—Oh, bright
was the seraph Ermengarde! and in that knowledge I had room for none
other.—Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde! and as I looked down into
the depths of her memorial eyes, I thought only of them—and of her.
I wedded;—nor dreaded the curse I had invoked; and its bitterness was
not visited upon me. And once—but once again in the silence of the
night; there came through my lattice the soft sighs which had forsaken
me; and they modelled themselves into familiar and sweet voice, saying:
"Sleep in peace!—for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and, in
taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art absolved,
for reasons which shall be made known to thee in Heaven, of thy vows
unto Eleonora."
End of Eleanora End of The Collected Works of Edgar Allen
Poe Raven Edition,
Volume II �