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我答道：“亲爱的伙计，我不会告诉你我得了什么病，浪费你的时间。生命短暂，在我还没说完以前，你就可能离世了。不过，我可以告诉你我没有得什么病，我没有得髌前囊炎。至于我为什么没有得髌前囊炎呢？我说不清楚；然而事实就摆在这里，我没有得髌前囊炎。可是，除此之外，什么病我都有。”
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我还把自己是如何发现这些疾病的过程一五一十地讲给他听了。
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接下来，他解开我的衣服，俯视着我。他紧握着我的一只手腕，我没料到他会敲打我的胸部——我称之为胆小鬼的做法——又马上把侧着的脸贴到我的身上。最后，他坐下来，开了一个处方，然后把处方折起来递给我。我接了过来揣进衣兜里，走了出去。
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我没有打开处方看，就径直来到一家最近的药店把处方递了过去。药剂师看了看处方，又将它退了回来。他说他不收这种处方。
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“你是药剂师吧？”我问道。
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“我是药剂师啊。如果我经营一个合作商店兼家庭旅馆的话，我倒是可以为你效劳。可我只是一个药剂师，我爱莫能助。”
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我看了看那处方，只见上面写道：“一磅牛排，每隔六小时服用一次；每天早晨散步十英里；每天晚上十一点整准时上床睡觉。此外不要满脑子都装些你不明白的东西。”
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（张白桦 译）
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西南联大英文课（英汉双语版） [:1705033822]
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17 THE TELL-TALE HEART A MURDERER’S CONFESSION
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By Edgar Allan Poe
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THE TELL-TALE HEART, by Edgar Allen Poe, in his Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque ,1840, and reprinted in Robert I. Fulton’s Standard Selections , pp. 426-431.
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Edgar Allen Poe （1808-1849）, American author. He is one of the world’s greatest writers of short stories; his stories have always had special appreciation in France.
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True! —nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
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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! One of his eyes resembled that 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 my life of him forever.
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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 so 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 the 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.
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Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. 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.
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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 the bed crying out—“Who’s there?”
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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.
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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. 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.
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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 single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.
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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 spot.
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Now, 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.
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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.
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