The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 196

entirely covered his face.

"Scoundrel!" I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every syllable
I uttered seemed as new fuel to my fury, "scoundrel! impostor! accursed
villain! you shall not--you shall not dog me unto death! Follow me, or I
stab you where you stand!"--and I broke my way from the ball-room into
a small ante-chamber adjoining--dragging him unresistingly with me as I
went.

Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered against the
wall, while I closed the door with an oath, and commanded him to draw.
He hesitated but for an instant; then, with a slight sigh, drew in
silence, and put himself upon his defence.

The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of wild
excitement, and felt within my single arm the energy and power of a
multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer strength against the
wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy, plunged my sword, with
brute ferocity, repeatedly through and through his bosom.

At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I hastened
to prevent an intrusion, and then immediately returned to my dying
antagonist. But what human language can adequately portray that
astonishment, that horror which possessed me at the spectacle then
presented to view? The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been
sufficient to produce, apparently, a material change in the arrangements
at the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror,--so at first it
seemed to me in my confusion--now stood where none had been perceptible
before; and, as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own
image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced to meet
me with a feeble and tottering gait.

Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist--it was
Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of his dissolution.
His mask and cloak lay, where he had thrown them, upon the floor. Not
a thread in all his raiment--not a line in all the marked and singular
lineaments of his face which was not, even in the most absolute
identity, mine own!

It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could have
fancied that I myself was speaking while he said:

"You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward art thou also
dead--dead to the World, to Heaven and to Hope! In me didst thou
exist--and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how
utterly thou hast murdered thyself."




THE TELL-TALE HEART.

TRUE!--nervous--very, very dreadfully nervous I

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Text Comparison with Le Corbeau = The Raven

Page 0
_ Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Page 1
Ardemment je souhaitais le jour--vainement j'avais cherché d'emprunter à mes livres un sursis au chagrin--au chagrin de la Lénore perdue--de la rare et rayonnante jeune fille que les anges nomment Lénore:--de nom pour elle ici, non, jamais plus!_ And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-- This it is and nothing more.
Page 2
«Sûrement, dis-je, sûrement c'est quelque chose à la persienne de ma fenêtre.
Page 3
" _Je m'émerveillai fort d'entendre ce disgracieux volatile s'énoncer aussi clairement, quoique sa réponse n'eût que peu de sens et peu .
Page 4
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-- On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.
Page 5
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this.
Page 6
» Le Corbeau dit: «Jamais plus!»_ "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a saintly maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
Page 7
Laisse inviolé mon abandon! quitte le buste au-dessus de ma porte! ôte ton bec de mon coeur et jette ta forme loin de ma porte!» Le Corbeau dit: «Jamais plus!»_ And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting--still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a Demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted--nevermore! _Et le Corbeau, sans voleter, siége encore--siége encore sur le buste pallide de Pallas, juste au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre, et ses yeux ont toute la semblance des yeux d'un démon qui rêve, et la lumière de la lampe, ruisselant sur lui, projette son ombre à terre: et mon âme, de cette ombre qui gît flottante à terre, ne s'élèvera--jamais plus!_.