The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2Poe, Edgar Allan
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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2
Poe, Edgar Allan
American fiction -- 19th century; Fantasy fiction; Horror tales, American; Short stories
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
aliquar tulum fore levatas.—_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_.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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