George begins this episode by talking a bit about the dynamics of performing “The Tell Tale Heart” - how it is so easy (and fun) to go “over the top” because the story is open to so many interpretations. The those of Mr. Poe reads the story, and the role of the unreliable narrator is compared in The Black Cat and The Tell Tale Heart. George also talks about a murder trial of the period (Daniel Webster was one of the attorneys) that could have served as inspiration for The Tell Tale Heart.
George begins this episode by talking a bit about the dynamics of performing “The Tell Tale Heart” - how it is so easy (and fun) to go “over the top” because the story is open to so many interpretations. The those of Mr. Poe reads the story, and the role of the unreliable narrator is compared in The Black Cat and The Tell Tale Heart. George also talks about a murder trial of the period (Daniel Webster was one of the attorneys) that could have served as inspiration for The Tell Tale Heart.
George Bartley - plain text
Ghost of Edgar Allan Poe - italics
00:00 Intro
Welcome to Celebrate Poe. My name is George Bartley, and this is episode 137 - Why WILL You Say I Am Mad. The music for the intro and outro for this podcast is fron ‘Come Rest in This Bosom’ - said to be Edgar Allan Poe’s favorite song.
Today’s story - The Tell Tale Heart is generally agreed to be one of Poe’s greatest works. Oh, The Black Cat, The Fall of the House of Usher, and The Pit and the Pendulum are certainly up there too.
00:41 Performing The Tell Tale Heart
But I am really excited about this Tell Tale Heart episode - you see - when I was acting as a historical reanactor of Edgar Allan Poe, I originally wanted to include The Black Cat, The Fall of the House of Usher and The Pit and the Pendulum - but they are all are rather lengthy - especially for students with short attention spans. (The Pit and the Pendulum takes about 46 minutes, but has excellent sections that you can pull right out and they stand on their own. - to a lesser extent, The Fall of the House of Usher has some sections that can also stand on their own - tho I think the story is definitely best when experienced as a whole.) The Raven is about eight minutes long - not that lengthy several hundred years ago when some poetry was epic in length - but not the best for all classes - especially the early grades where again - the attention span of most students is rather short. In contrast, The Tell Tale Heart is one of those stories - that if done right - grabs your attention from the first word - TRUE - and has the audience on the edge of their seats until the last sentence - IT IS THE BEATING OF HIS HIDEOUS HEART! The Tell Tale Heart shows a flair for the dramatic - and I always enjoyed going over the top - and gradually learned how to build suspense and cause an audience to scream in terror.
I think that almost everytime I did The Tale Tell Heart, it - seemed that I would see something new and encounter a slightly new emphasis in delivery interpretation. The experience of doing The Tell Tale Heart over and over gave me an appreciation for actors who do a role over and over - day after day - learning how to MILK the part for all it is worth.
Well, I’m getting a bit off the topic - last week and thist week - the ghost of Mr. Poe (who may sound a bit like me) last week got a chance to read - or should I say - act the part of the unreliable narrator in The Black Cat. As I hope you will see, that narrator is not all that far from the character of the unreliable narrator in The Tell Tale Heart.
ENTER GHOST
Greetings, Mr. Bartley
Hello Mr. Poe - I was talking about how the main character in both The Tale Tale Heart and The Black Cat are unreliable narrators. We heard The Black Cat in the previous episode - would you now favor us with this copy of The Tell Tale Heart?
Certainly.
03:35 “Poe” reads 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!
DOOR SOUND
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.
DOOR SOUND
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 bosom, 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 eye. 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.
13:45 The murder of the old man
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.
14:55 How does the narrator describe the way he hides the body?
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!
16:08 The appearance of the officers
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!
19:23 The narrator “confesses”
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks! here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!”
Thank you Mr. Poe. In my opinion, that story never gets old.
Thank YOU, Mr. Bartley. But with the culmination of that story I must take my leave. Farewell, Mr. Bartley
GHOST LEAVES SOUND
Goodbye, Mr. Poe!
Last week I said that I wanted to be sure and touch on some of the similarities and even differences between today’s story - The Tale Heart and The Black Cat from last week.
20:26 Unreliable narrators
First, both stories clearly have unreliable narrators who have lost touch with reality.
Second, both narrators kill living beings that they love - in The Black Cat, the narrator kills two cats who he loved a greal at one time. And in The Tale Heart, the narrator says, “I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. For his gold, I had no desire.”
TRANSITION SOUND
In Edgar Allan Poe: A Critical Biography by the great Arthur Hobson Quinn, Dr. Quinn writes that Poe put much of himself into many of his stories. And every student of his life knows instances of Poe’s characters’ tendencies to do the wrong thing when they should have known better. But there was an instance in Poe's boyhood rarely mentioned that may be pertinent here. On one occasion he wantonly killed a pet fawn belonging to his foster-mother, the first Mrs. Allan, something for which he very likely later felt remorse.
Dr Quinn goes on to say - Poe was from his earliest youth very fond of cats (Dr. Quinn believes that The killing of a cat was for Poe the slaughter of a very reasonable creature. The protagonist of “The Black Cat” was already morally a murderer when his ultimate act of cruelty made him one legally.
22:09 How much is hallucination?
As for The Tale Heart - Poe carefully leaves unanswered the question of how much is hallucination. Did the protagonist go mad before he came to a twisted conclusion that the old man had an Evil Eye — and when the narrator hears the beating of a heart - is that the heartbeat of the narrator himself?
Now I have seen several women do The Tale Heart - which adds a new dimension - where those ladies protraying women abused by an older man? - an interesting interpretation.
Is the narrator so mentally confused that the old man doesn’t even exist - we sense that the narrator hears auditory halllucinations - does he also experience visual hallucinations - or imagines things or people that are not there. Could he be hearing his OWN heart?
22:23 A Deaf The Tell Tale Heart?
Several years ago, I filmed a version of The Tell Tale Heart using Poe’s words as a deaf narrator communicating in American Sign Language. I filmed part of it at the Moundsvile State Penintenary - an abandoned prison in Moundsville, West Virginia that was recently used in a Christian Bale movie. I have been thinking about redoing the majority of that movie - if I can find it - I know it is on one of my hard discs somewhere - in Final Cut Pro X. And this time, I would not sign as a younger unreliable narrator but as an old man who does not see himself as an old man - and may or may not have killed another old man. The thing about The Tell Tale Heart is that Poe makes it so clear that the narrator is mentally unhinged that almost any interpretation could be viewed as the “right one.”
24:37 Possible sources fot The Tale Heart
If Poe needed no special source for his main idea, there is evidence that Poe may have been influenced by several literary sources. The chief inspiration is said to be a description by Daniel Webster of a real crime committed in Massachusetts, when John Francis Knapp employed Richard Crowninshield, Jr., of Danvers, to rob and kill Joseph White of Salem on the night of April 6, 1830. The criminals were apprehended and Crowninshield committed suicide, but Knapp was brought to trial. Daniel Webster was employed as a special prosecutor, and Knapp was convicted.
Webster's Argument on the Trial ... was published as a pamphlet at Salem during the year. The following are pertinent extracts from his speech:
An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly murder, for mere pay. Truly, here is a new lesson for painters and poets. Let him draw, rather, a decorous, smooth-faced, bloodless demon; a picture in repose, rather than in action; not so much an example of human nature in its depravity, and in its paroxysms of crime, as an infernal being, a fiend, in the ordinary display and development of his character.
By the way, this is a very descriptive way of pointing out the rationale for a new defense - not guilty by reason of insanity -
Now back to Daniel Webster’s words -
The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and steadiness equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. The circumstances now clearly in evidence spread out the whole scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim ... A healthful old man ... The assassin enters ... With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall ... and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this, he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on its hinges without noise; and he enters, and beholds his victim before him ... The face of the innocent sleeper ... show[s] him where to strike. The fated blow is given! ... It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work ... To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! He feels for it and ascertains that it beats no longer! The deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the window ... and escapes. He has done the murder. No eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and it is safe!
Ah! Gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere ... True it is, generally speaking, that “murder will out” ... the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself; or rather it feels an irresistible impulse to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty possession and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant ... The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him; and like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him withersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master ... It must be confessed, it will be confessed.
I have read that Poe was working as a journalist covering the trail. Did Daniel Webster's remarks on the “lesson for painters and poets” influence Poe in his stories with unreliable narrators, especially The Tell Tale Heart?
29:40 Quote from I Am Safe
Well, last week, I ended the episode by quoting from a web article by David Grantz by the name I Am Safe in reference to The Black Cat. Those words could equally apply to The Tell Tale Heart - to an unreliable narrator who also seems to feel victimized by the world.
I want to end this episode with those same words regarding Poe but this time apply them to The Tale Heart.
Most of Poe’s characters cannot learn from recognition scenes because they are locked into circumstances beyond the control that can be exerted by the individual will. They do reflect on the calamities which befall them, only they are so alienated from themselves that they actually forfeit their self-control. Again, many of Poe's characters are extensions of the author's own struggles. Poe felt himself victimized by the world. It had, after all, taken away from him every important woman in his life; it had robbed him of identity with parents, and of his share of the estate of John Allan. How ironic that this genius, who could so masterfully arrange his short stories, invented characters who could not bring order to their own lives!
31:12 Future episode
The podcast for next week is a conversation of the ghost where Mr. Poe talks about his feelings and actions at a pivotal time in his life - after he came back home to Richmond after attending the University of Virginia and realized that it would be very difficult to pursue the literary profession that he came to realize was his purpose. Such an examination of his life and feelings - and I really think this is fascinating stuff that is even moving - as Edgar Allan Poe comes to a crossroad in his life.. So join Celebrate Poe for the episode - End of Youth.
32:02 Sources
Sources include The Tell Tale Heart and The Black Cat from The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe by Edgar Allan Poe, Poe: A Critical Biography by Arthur Hobson Quinn,POE, POE, POE, POE, POE, POE, POE by Daniel Hoffman, Edgar A. Poe: Mournful and Never Ending Remembrance by Kenneth Silverman, and I Am Safe: Pervesity, Poe’s Primal Impulse as Illustrated in The Black Cat, The Imp of the Perverse, and Never Bet the Devil Your Head.’ by David Grantz and published by Christopher Nilson
32:40 Outro
Thank you for listenirng to Celebrate Poe - a deep dive into the life, times, and works of America’s Shakespeare - Edgar Allan Poe.
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