Story of the Month: Conscience

True — I am nervous, dreadfully nervous; I have been and I still am. But what makes you believe that I am mad? No! I am not mad. The fever has strained my nerves. I have heard all things in the earth and the heavens, and I have heard many things of hell. How, then, can you call me mad, when I enjoy good health, dignity, and composure? And observe how calmly I tell you the whole story.

It is hard for me to say how the notion first came to me, but once it did I embraced it and fell into its grip. There was no object, and there was no impulse of passion, for I loved the old man, who had never once done me harm or offered me any insult, and I had no desire for his gold. Yet I know the one cause: it was his eye. Yes, his eye — for it was like a vulture's eye, a pale blue, with a film over it. Never did that eye fall upon me but my blood ran cold in my veins.

This point is the crux of the matter, and you will think me mad. Madmen know nothing. You should have accompanied me while I carried out my resolve, and then it would be clear to you that I am not mad — for I carried out my resolve with all wisdom, caution, and foresight.

Never in my life was I kinder to that old man than in the week before he was killed. Every night at midnight I would go to his room and open the door of the room with care and gentleness, just far enough to admit my head. I would put in my hand, holding the lantern, shrouded on every side so that no light escaped it; then I would put in my head, carrying out this work with exaggerated caution so that the man would not wake from his pleasant sleep. Often this work took me a full hour. Is it reasonable that a man described as mad would do such a thing? And after I had assured myself several times that the man was asleep, I would try to make the lantern cast a faint ray of light upon that vulture eye. I did this for seven nights in a row, and each time I saw the vulture eye with its lids closed, so I turned back from my resolve, because the old man himself did not trouble me; it was his eye that was the source of my distress. And when morning broke, I would enter his room with a strange boldness and speak to him freely, addressing him in a voice overflowing with tenderness, inquiring of him how he had passed his night.

On the eighth night I was more cautious in opening the door of the room than on any night before it. Never in my life had I realized the extent of my power and my resolve as I realized it that night. I gloried in the feeling of triumph stirring within me — and it is a sight that awakens such a feeling in the soul: there I was, working the door of the room open with caution, while the old man had no notion of what I was planning to do in secret. I chuckled when the thought occurred to me, and perhaps he heard my chuckle, for I saw him move suddenly in his bed, like one seized with fright. Perhaps you think I turned coward and shrank from my resolve? No — nothing of the sort happened. The room was dark, for I had fastened the shutters tight for fear of thieves, and so I was certain that he had not seen me opening the door with caution. I put in my head as usual, and just as I was about to open the lantern, my thumb slipped from its place and made a sound. The old man sprang up in his bed at once and cried out — "Who's there?"

I took refuge in silence and stillness; I uttered not a syllable and did not stir a hair's breadth, and I remained so for a full hour. I did not hear him return to his sleep; rather he sat up in his bed, listening — just as I used to do every night — hearkening to every movement and every stir, however slight and faint. Suddenly a low groan struck my ear, and in it I recognized the groan of mortal fear. It was not a groan born of pain or of grief; it was a low groan rising from the depths of the soul when dread and terror take hold of it. I knew that groan well, for its like had risen from my own breast when terror seized me in the middle of every night; therefore I knew the meaning of the old man's groan, just as I understood the feeling that had come over him. I felt pity for him, even while I chuckled inwardly. I knew he had not slept since he heard the first sound; his fears had loomed larger and larger before him. Perhaps he tried to find a justification for his fear, telling himself there was no cause for such a feeling; perhaps he asked himself inwardly — "There is nothing there. It is only the sound of the wind playing in the chimney! It is only the sound of a mouse crossing the floor of the room." He kept trying to comfort himself with these explanations, but to no avail, for Death was drawing near to him, its gray specter stretching itself before his eyes. And it was this that made him — though he neither saw nor heard — feel the presence of another person in the room.

When I had waited a long time with great patience, without hearing him return to his bed, I resolved to open the lantern a small crack. When I did so, a weak, faint ray shone out, like a spider's thread, and fell upon the vulture eye. The eye was open, as if sleep had never visited it, and I was appalled at the sight — for it was blue, covered by a hideous film that sent a cold shudder through my limbs, until I felt it pierce my bones and settle in my joints. But I could not see the rest of his face and body, as though I had directed the rays of the lantern upon my target and nothing else. At the same moment a low, steadily repeated sound struck my ear, like the sound of a watch wrapped in cotton. I know that sound: it was nothing other than the sound of the old man's heart. That sound increased my agitation, as the sound of a drum stirs the soldier to plunge into the thick of battle. But I did not move; I stayed silent, and the lantern stayed in my hand, sending its faint ray upon the vulture eye without interruption — while the hellish sound coming from the man's heart kept climbing in loudness and speed, moment after moment. There is no doubt that the man's terror had reached its utmost limit. The sound grew ever louder and quicker as the time wore on and that hour of the night drew near — silent as the silence of the grave — amid that dreadful stillness of our old house. Then I could no longer master myself, for the horror that fearful sound had aroused in me. I tried to control my feelings, and I succeeded for a few minutes; but the beats of the man's heart rose higher and higher, until I imagined that heart would surely burst with fear. At that moment a new dread swept over me, for it flashed upon my imagination that the sound of these beats might reach the ear of a neighbor. The man's hour had come, beyond all escape. I let out a resounding yell, threw open the light of the lantern, and burst into the room. The man shrieked once, and I fell upon him at once, dragged him to the floor, and buried him under the bedding. And here the smile of triumph spread across my face, my resolve accomplished. But the beats of the man's heart went on sounding for several minutes; then they stopped suddenly. The man was dead; life had left him. I lifted the bedding off him; he was dead as stone, and I was certain that his eye would have no power to trouble me any longer.

And you will not charge me with madness when you learn the extent of the precautions I took in carrying out my deed and in effacing all traces of the crime. The night dragged heavily on while I worked swiftly, but in silence and calm. The first thing I did was to dismember the corpse; then I took up some of the planks of the floor of the room, laid the remains beneath those planks, and replaced them as they had been, until I was certain that no human eye would have the power to notice what I had done.

When I had finished these labors, the clock had reached four in the morning, and the curtains of darkness still wrapped the world on every side. As the clock struck four, there came a knocking at the door of the house. I went down and opened the door with an untroubled heart. Three men entered and introduced themselves to me as officers of the police. They had come after one of the neighbors had told them he had heard a sharp cry during the night, which had aroused suspicion and misgiving that something serious had occurred in the house. And so they had been deputed to visit the house and carry out a search. I smiled — and why not? There was nothing to frighten me. I welcomed the officers and informed them that the cry had come from me in my sleep, and I mentioned to them that the old man had been away in the country for some time. I led my visitors through all the rooms of the house and asked them to search every room thoroughly. Then I brought them to the old man's room and showed them his jewels and his papers — untouched, remaining just as they had been. In the fervor of my self-confidence I was so bold as to bring them some chairs and ask them to sit down and rest from the fatigue of the search, while the intoxication of triumph and self-assurance drove me to drag up a chair for myself and place it upon the very planks beneath which I had buried the remains of the corpse.

The officers were satisfied by my words, and my manner of speaking and persuading won them over. I sat with them and answered their questions with perfect ease and cheerfulness, and the conversation turned to all manner of familiar things. But before long I felt my color turn pale, and I wished they would leave the house as quickly as possible. Only a short while passed before I felt a dizziness in my head and imagined that I heard a ringing in my ears.

I do not doubt that my color was pale at that moment; yet in spite of it my speech grew more fluent, and my tones grew louder and clearer — and the ringing answered, more and more. What was I to do? The answering sound was like the ticking of a watch wrapped in a piece of cotton. I began to gasp audibly, but the officers did not hear me. Then I began to talk rapidly, and still the ringing rang on, loud and continuous. I said to myself: their errand is finished — why do they not go? I rose and began pacing the room to and fro, muttering, foaming and fuming, cursing and swearing. Then I seized my chair and began to swing it through the air of the room. I struck the floorboards with it and it shattered upon them; but even that did not stop the ringing from going on, until I imagined it had drowned out everything — and the officers chatted on and laughed, wholly absorbed in their talk. Is it possible that they heard nothing? No — oh, my agony — they heard, and they suspected, and they knew. That is what I believed and what I thought, and think still: they were watching the measure of the terror I was suffering. I could no longer endure the sight of their laughter, behind which lay hypocrisy and deceit, and I felt that I must either scream or die. Hark! The ringing has grown louder, moment by moment, until it has drowned every other sound in the room. Then I sprang up, shouting at the top of my voice:

You villains! Enough of your trickery and dissembling! I confess my deed. Tear up these planks, here and there — this ringing is nothing but the throbbing of the murdered man's terrified heart; it is nothing but the ringing of my tormented conscience.