THE FALL
OF THE
HOUSE OF USHER
BY
EDGAR ALLAN POE
COPYRIGHT
INFORMATION
Short Story: “The Fall of
the House of Usher”
Author: Edgar Allan Poe,
1809–49
First published: 1839
The original short story
is in the public domain in the
United States and in most,
if not all, other countries as well.
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created by José Menéndez.
3
Son coeur est un luth
suspendu;
Sitôt qu’on le touche il
résonne.
De
Béranger.
During the whole of a
dull, dark, and soundless day in the
autumn of the year, when
the clouds hung oppressively low
in the heavens, I had been
passing alone, on horseback,
through a singularly
dreary tract of country, and at length
found myself, as the
shades of the evening drew on, within
view of the melancholy
House of Usher. I know not how it
was—but, with the first
glimpse of the building, a sense of
insufferable gloom
pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for
the feeling was unrelieved
by any of that half-pleasurable,
because poetic, sentiment
with which the mind usually
receives even the sternest
natural images of the desolate or
terrible. I looked upon
the scene before me—upon the mere
house, and the simple
landscape features of the domain—
upon the bleak walls—upon
the vacant eye-like windows—
upon a few rank sedges—and
upon a few white trunks of
decayed trees—with an
utter depression of soul which I can
compare to no earthly
sensation more properly than to the
after-dream of the
reveller upon opium—the bitter lapse into
every-day life—the hideous
dropping off of the veil. There
was an iciness, a sinking,
a sickening of the heart—an
unredeemed dreariness of
thought which no goading of the
imagination could torture
into aught of the sublime. What
was it—I paused to think—what
was it that so unnerved me
in the contemplation of
the House of Usher? It was a mystery
all insoluble; nor could I
grapple with the shadowy fancies
that crowded upon me as I
pondered. I was forced to fall
back upon the
unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond
THE 4 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF
USHER
doubt, there are combinations of very simple
natural objects
which have the power of
thus affecting us, still the analysis
of this power lies among
considerations beyond our depth. It
was possible, I reflected,
that a mere different arrangement
of the particulars of the
scene, of the details of the picture,
would be sufficient to
modify, or perhaps to annihilate its
capacity for sorrowful
impression; and, acting upon this idea,
I reined my horse to the
precipitous brink of a black and
lurid tarn that lay in
unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and
gazed down—but with a
shudder even more thrilling than
before—upon the remodelled
and inverted images of the
gray sedge, and the
ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and
eye-like windows.
Nevertheless, in this
mansion of gloom I now proposed
to myself a sojourn of
some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick
Usher, had been one of my
boon companions in boyhood;
but many years had elapsed
since our last meeting. A letter,
however, had lately
reached me in a distant part of the
country—a letter from him—which,
in its wildly
importunate nature, had
admitted of no other than a personal
reply. The MS. gave
evidence of nervous agitation. The
writer spoke of acute
bodily illness—of a mental disorder
which oppressed him—and of
an earnest desire to see me, as
his best and indeed his
only personal friend, with a view of
attempting, by the
cheerfulness of my society, some
alleviation of his malady.
It was the manner in which all this,
and much more, was said—it
was the apparent heart that
went with his request—which
allowed me no room for
hesitation; and I
accordingly obeyed forthwith what I still
considered a very singular
summons.
Although, as boys, we had
been even intimate
associates, yet I really
knew little of my friend. His reserve
had been always excessive
and habitual. I was aware,
however, that his very
ancient family had been noted, time
EDGAR ALLAN POE 5
out of mind, for a
peculiar sensibility of temperament,
displaying itself, through
long ages, in many works of
exalted art, and
manifested, of late, in repeated deeds of
munificent yet unobtrusive
charity, as well as in a passionate
devotion to the intricacies,
perhaps even more than to the
orthodox and easily
recognizable beauties, of musical
science. I had learned,
too, the very remarkable fact, that the
stem of the Usher race,
all time-honored as it was, had put
forth, at no period, any
enduring branch; in other words, that
the entire family lay in
the direct line of descent, and had
always, with very trifling
and very temporary variation, so
lain. It was this
deficiency, I considered, while running over
in thought the perfect
keeping of the character of the
premises with the
accredited character of the people, and
while speculating upon the
possible influence which the one,
in the long lapse of
centuries, might have exercised upon the
other—it was this
deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue,
and the consequent
undeviating transmission, from sire to
son, of the patrimony with
the name, which had, at length, so
identified the two as to
merge the original title of the estate
in the quaint and
equivocal appellation of the “House of
Usher”—an appellation which
seemed to include, in the
minds of the peasantry who
used it, both the family and the
family mansion.
I have said that the sole
effect of my somewhat childish
experiment—that of looking
down within the tarn—had been
to deepen the first
singular impression. There can be no
doubt that the
consciousness of the rapid increase of my
superstition—for why
should I not so term it?—served
mainly to accelerate the
increase itself. Such, I have long
known, is the paradoxical
law of all sentiments having terror
as a basis. And it might
have been for this reason only, that,
when I again uplifted my
eyes to the house itself, from its
image in the pool, there
grew in my mind a strange fancy—a
THE 6 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF
USHER
fancy so ridiculous,
indeed, that I but mention it to show the
vivid force of the
sensations which oppressed me. I had so
worked upon my imagination
as really to believe that about
the whole mansion and
domain there hung an atmosphere
peculiar to themselves and
their immediate vicinity—an
atmosphere which had no
affinity with the air of heaven, but
which had reeked up from
the decayed trees, and the gray
wall, and the silent tarn—a
pestilent and mystic vapor, dull,
sluggish, faintly
discernible, and leaden-hued.
Shaking off from my spirit
what must have been a
dream, I scanned more
narrowly the real aspect of the
building. Its principal
feature seemed to be that of an
excessive antiquity. The
discoloration of ages had been
great. Minute fungi
overspread the whole exterior, hanging
in a fine tangled web-work
from the eaves. Yet all this was
apart from any
extraordinary dilapidation. No portion of the
masonry had fallen; and
there appeared to be a wild
inconsistency between its
still perfect adaptation of parts,
and the crumbling
condition of the individual stones. In this
there was much that
reminded me of the specious totality of
old wood-work which has
rotted for long years in some
neglected vault, with no
disturbance from the breath of the
external air. Beyond this
indication of extensive decay,
however, the fabric gave
little token of instability. Perhaps
the eye of a scrutinizing
observer might have discovered a
barely perceptible
fissure, which, extending from the roof of
the building in front,
made its way down the wall in a zigzag
direction, until it became
lost in the sullen waters of the tarn.
Noticing these things, I
rode over a short causeway to
the house. A servant in
waiting took my horse, and I entered
the Gothic archway of the
hall. A valet, of stealthy step,
thence conducted me, in silence,
through many dark and
intricate passages in my
progress to the studio of his
master.
Much that I encountered on
the way contributed, I know not
EDGAR ALLAN POE 7
how, to heighten the vague
sentiments of which I have
already spoken. While the
objects around me—while the
carvings of the ceilings,
the sombre tapestries of the walls,
the ebon blackness of the
floors, and the phantasmagoric
armorial trophies which
rattled as I strode, were but matters
to which, or to such as
which, I had been accustomed from
my infancy—while I
hesitated not to acknowledge how
familiar was all this—I
still wondered to find how unfamiliar
were the fancies which
ordinary images were stirring up. On
one of the staircases, I
met the physician of the family. His
countenance, I thought,
wore a mingled expression of low
cunning and perplexity. He
accosted me with trepidation and
passed on. The valet now
threw open a door and ushered me
into the presence of his
master.
The room in which I found
myself was very large and
lofty. The windows were
long, narrow, and pointed, and at
so vast a distance from
the black oaken floor as to be
altogether inaccessible
from within. Feeble gleams of
encrimsoned light made
their way through the trellised
panes, and served to
render sufficiently distinct the more
prominent objects around;
the eye, however, struggled in
vain to reach the remoter
angles of the chamber, or the
recesses of the vaulted
and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies
hung upon the walls. The
general furniture was profuse,
comfortless, antique, and
tattered. Many books and musical
instruments lay scattered
about, but failed to give any vitality
to the scene. I felt that
I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.
An air of stern, deep, and
irredeemable gloom hung over and
pervaded all.
Upon my entrance, Usher
arose from a sofa on which he
had been lying at full
length, and greeted me with a
vivacious warmth which had
much in it, I at first thought, of
an overdone cordiality—of
the constrained effort of the
ennuyé
man of the world. A glance, however, at his
THE 8 FALL OF THE HOUSE OF
USHER
countenance convinced me
of his perfect sincerity. We sat
down; and for some
moments, while he spoke not, I gazed
upon him with a feeling
half of pity, half of awe. Surely, man
had never before so terribly
altered, in so brief a period, as
had Roderick Usher! It was
with difficulty that I could bring
myself to admit the
identity of the wan being before me with
the companion of my early
boyhood. Yet the character of his
face had been at all times
remarkable. A cadaverousness of
complexion; an eye large,
liquid, and luminous beyond
comparison; lips somewhat
thin and very pallid but of a
surpassingly beautiful
curve; a nose of a delicate Hebrew
model, but with a breadth
of nostril unusual in similar
formations; a finely
moulded chin, speaking, in its want of
prominence, of a want of
moral energy; hair of a more than
web-like softness and
tenuity;—these features, with an
inordinate expansion above
the regions of the temple, made
up altogether a
countenance not easily to be forgotten. And
now in the mere
exaggeration of the prevailing character of
these features, and of the
expression they were wont to
convey, lay so much of
change that I doubted to whom I
spoke. The now ghastly
pallor of the skin, and the now
miraculous lustre of the
eye, above all things startled and
even awed me. The silken
hair, too, had been suffered to
grow all unheeded, and as,
in its wild gossamer texture, it
floated rather than fell
about the face, I could not, even with
effort, connect its
Arabesque expression with any idea of
simple humanity.
In the manner of my friend
I was at once struck with an
incoherence—an
inconsistency; and I soon found this to
arise from a series of
feeble and futile struggles to overcome
an habitual trepidancy—an
excessive nervous agitation. For
something of this nature I
had indeed been prepared, no less
by his letter, than by
reminiscences of certain boyish traits,
and by conclusions deduced
from his peculiar physical
EDGAR ALLAN POE 9
conformation and
temperament. His action was alternately
vivacious and sullen. His
voice varied rapidly from a
tremulous indecision (when
the animal spirits seemed utterly
in abeyance) to that
species of energetic concision—that
abrupt, weighty,
unhurried, and hollow-sounding
enunciation—that leaden,
self-balanced and perfectly
modulated guttural
utterance, which may be observed in the
lost drunkard, or the
irreclaimable eater of opium, during the
periods of his most
intense excitement.
It was thus that he spoke
of the object of my visit, of his
earnest desire to see me,
and of the solace he expected me to
afford him. He entered, at
some length, into what he
conceived to be the nature
of his malady. It was, he said, a
constitutional and a family
evil, and one for which he
despaired to find a remedy—a
mere nervous affection, he
immediately added, which
would undoubtedly soon pass off.
It displayed itself in a
host of unnatural sensations. Some of
these, as he detailed
them, interested and bewildered me;
although, perhaps, the
terms and the general manner of their
narration had their
weight. He suffered much from a morbid
acuteness of the senses;
the most insipid food was alone
endurable; he could wear
only garments of certain texture;
the odors of all flowers
were oppressive; his eyes were
tortured by even a faint
light; and there were but peculiar
sounds, and these from
stringed instruments, which did not
inspire him with horror.
To an anomalous species of
terror I found him a
bounden slave. “I shall
perish,” said he, “I must perish
in this
deplorable folly. Thus,
thus, and not otherwise, shall I be
lost. I dread the events
of the future, not in themselves, but in
their results. I shudder
at the thought of any, even the most
trivial, incident, which
may operate upon this intolerable
agitation of soul. I have,
indeed, no abhorrence of danger,
except in its absolute
effect—in terror. In this unnerved, in
THE 10 FALL OF THE HOUSE
OF USHER
this pitiable, condition I
feel that the period will sooner or
later arrive when I must
abandon life and reason together, in
some struggle with the
grim phantasm, Fear.”
I learned, moreover, at
intervals, and through broken
and equivocal hints,
another singular feature of his mental
condition. He was
enchained by certain superstitious
impressions in regard to
the dwelling which he tenanted, and
whence, for many years, he
had never ventured forth—in
regard to an influence
whose supposititious force was
conveyed in terms too
shadowy here to be re-stated—an
influence which some
peculiarities in the mere form and
substance of his family
mansion had, by dint of long
sufferance, he said,
obtained over his spirit—an effect which
the physique of the gray walls and
turrets, and of the dim tarn
into which they all looked
down, had, at length, brought
about upon the morale of his existence.
He admitted, however,
although with hesitation, that
much of the peculiar gloom
which thus afflicted him could
be traced to a more
natural and far more palpable origin—to
the severe and long-continued
illness—indeed to the
evidently approaching
dissolution—of a tenderly beloved
sister, his sole companion
for long years, his last and only
relative on earth. “Her
decease,” he said, with a bitterness
which I can never forget, “would
leave him (him the
hopeless and the frail)
the last of the ancient race of the
Ushers.” While he spoke,
the lady Madeline (for so was she
called) passed through a
remote portion of the apartment,
and, without having
noticed my presence, disappeared. I
regarded her with an utter
astonishment not unmingled with
dread; and yet I found it
impossible to account for such
feelings. A sensation of
stupor oppressed me as my eyes
followed her retreating
steps. When a door, at length, closed
upon her, my glance sought
instinctively and eagerly the
countenance of the
brother; but he had buried his face in his
EDGAR ALLAN POE 11
hands, and I could only
perceive that a far more than
ordinary wanness had
overspread the emaciated fingers
through which trickled
many passionate tears.
The disease of the lady
Madeline had long baffled the
skill of her physicians. A
settled apathy, a gradual wasting
away of the person, and
frequent although transient
affections of a partially
cataleptical character were the
unusual diagnosis.
Hitherto she had steadily borne up against
the pressure of her
malady, and had not betaken herself
finally to bed; but on the
closing in of the evening of my
arrival at the house, she
succumbed (as her brother told me at
night with inexpressible
agitation) to the prostrating power
of the destroyer; and I
learned that the glimpse I had
obtained of her person
would thus probably be the last I
should obtain—that the
lady, at least while living, would be
seen by me no more.
For several days ensuing,
her name was unmentioned
by either Usher or myself;
and during this period I was
busied in earnest
endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of
my friend. We painted and
read together, or I listened, as if
in a dream, to the wild
improvisations of his speaking guitar.
And thus, as a closer and
still closer intimacy admitted me
more unreservedly into the
recesses of his spirit, the more
bitterly did I perceive
the futility of all attempt at cheering a
mind from which darkness,
as if an inherent positive quality,
poured forth upon all
objects of the moral and physical
universe in one unceasing
radiation of gloom.
I shall ever bear about me
a memory of the many
solemn hours I thus spent
alone with the master of the House
of Usher. Yet I should
fail in any attempt to convey an idea
of the exact character of
the studies, or of the occupations, in
which he involved me, or
led me the way. An excited and
highly distempered
ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over
all. His long improvised
dirges will ring forever in my ears.
THE 12 FALL OF THE HOUSE
OF USHER
Among other things, I hold
painfully in mind a certain
singular perversion and
amplification of the wild air of the
last waltz of Von Weber.
From the paintings over which his
elaborate fancy brooded,
and which grew, touch by touch,
into vagueness at which I
shuddered the more thrillingly,
because I shuddered
knowing not why—from these paintings
(vivid as their images now
are before me) I would in vain
endeavor to educe more
than a small portion which should
lie within the compass of
merely written words. By the utter
simplicity, by the
nakedness of his designs, he arrested and
overawed attention. If
ever mortal painted an idea, that
mortal was Roderick Usher.
For me at least, in the
circumstances then surrounding
me, there arose out of the
pure abstractions which
the hypochondriac contrived to
throw upon his canvas, an
intensity of intolerable awe, no
shadow of which felt I
ever yet in the contemplation of the
certainly glowing yet too
concrete reveries of Fuseli.
One of the phantasmagoric
conceptions of my friend,
partaking not so rigidly
of the spirit of abstraction, may be
shadowed forth, although
feebly, in words. A small picture
presented the interior of
an immensely long and rectangular
vault or tunnel, with low
walls, smooth, white, and without
interruption or device.
Certain accessory points of the design
served well to convey the
idea that this excavation lay at an
exceeding depth below the
surface of the earth. No outlet
was observed in any
portion of its vast extent, and no torch
or other artificial source
of light was discernible; yet a flood
of intense rays rolled
throughout, and bathed the whole in a
ghastly and inappropriate
splendor.
I have just spoken of that
morbid condition of the
auditory nerve which
rendered all music intolerable to the
sufferer, with the
exception of certain effects of stringed
instruments. It was,
perhaps, the narrow limits to which he
thus confined himself upon
the guitar which gave birth, in
EDGAR ALLAN POE 13
great measure, to the
fantastic character of his performances.
But the fervid facility of his impromptus could not be so
accounted for. They must
have been, and were, in the notes,
as well as in the words of
his wild fantasias (for he not
unfrequently accompanied
himself with rhymed verbal
improvisations), the
result of that intense mental
collectedness and
concentration to which I have previously
alluded as observable only
in particular moments of the
highest artificial
excitement. The words of one of these
rhapsodies I have easily
remembered. I was, perhaps, the
more forcibly impressed
with it as he gave it, because, in the
under or mystic current of
its meaning, I fancied that I
perceived, and for the
first time, a full consciousness on the
part of Usher of the
tottering of his lofty reason upon her
throne. The verses, which
were entitled “The Haunted
Palace,” ran very nearly,
if not accurately, thus:—
I.
In the greenest of our
valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately
palace—
Radiant palace—reared its
head.
In the monarch Thought’s
dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a
pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
II.
Banners yellow, glorious,
golden,
On its roof did float and
flow
(This—all this—was in the
olden
Time long ago);
THE 14 FALL OF THE HOUSE
OF USHER
And every gentle air that
dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed
and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
III.
Wanderers in that happy
valley
Through two luminous
windows saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute’s well-tunèd
law;
Round about a throne,
where sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well
befitting,
The ruler of the realm was
seen.
IV.
And all with pearl and
ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came
flowing, flowing, flowing
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes whose
sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing
beauty,
The wit and wisdom of
their king.
V.
But evil things, in robes
of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s
high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for
never morrow
Shall dawn upon him,
desolate!)
And, round about his home,
the glory
That blushed and bloomed
EDGAR ALLAN POE 15
Is but a dim-remembered
story
Of the old time entombed.
VI.
And travellers now within
that valley,
Through the red-litten
windows see
Vast forms that move
fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid
ghastly river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous throng rush out
forever,
And laugh—but smile no
more.
I well remember that
suggestions arising from this
ballad led us into a train
of thought wherein there became
manifest an opinion of
Usher’s which I mention not so much
on account of its novelty
(for other men* have thought thus),
as on account of the
pertinacity with which he maintained it.
This opinion, in its
general form, was that of the sentience of
all vegetable things. But,
in his disordered fancy, the idea
had assumed a more daring
character, and trespassed, under
certain conditions, upon
the kingdom of inorganization. I
lack words to express the
full extent, or the earnest abandon
of his persuasion. The
belief, however, was connected (as I
have previously hinted)
with the gray stones of the home of
his forefathers. The
conditions of the sentience had been
here, he imagined,
fulfilled in the method of collocation of
these stones—in the order
of their arrangement, as well as in
that of the many fungi which overspread them, and of
the
decayed trees which stood
around—above all, in the long
undisturbed endurance of
this arrangement, and in its
* Watson, Dr. Percival,
Spallanzani, and especially the Bishop of
Landaff.—See “Chemical
Essays,” vol. v.
THE 16 FALL OF THE HOUSE
OF USHER
reduplication in the still
waters of the tarn. Its evidence—the
evidence of the sentience—was
to be seen, he said, (and I
here started as he spoke),
in the gradual yet certain
condensation of an
atmosphere of their own about the waters
and the walls. The result
was discoverable, he added, in that
silent yet importunate and
terrible influence which for
centuries had moulded the
destinies of his family, and which
made him what I now saw him—what he was.
Such opinions
need no comment, and I
will make none.
Our books—the books which,
for years, had formed no
small portion of the
mental existence of the invalid—were,
as might be supposed, in
strict keeping with this character of
phantasm. We pored
together over such works as the
“Ververt et Chartreuse” of
Gresset; the “Belphegor” of
Machiavelli; the “Heaven
and Hell” of Swedenborg; the
“Subterranean Voyage of
Nicholas Klimm” by Holberg; the
“Chiromancy” of Robert Flud,
of Jean D’Indaginé, and of De
la Chambre; the “Journey
into the Blue Distance” of Tieck;
and the “City of the Sun”
of Campanella. One favorite
volume was a small octavo
edition of the “Directorium
Inquisitorium,” by the
Dominican Eymeric de Gironne; and
there were passages in
Pomponius Mela, about the old
African Satyrs and
OEgipans, over which Usher would sit
dreaming for hours. His
chief delight, however, was found in
the perusal of an
exceedingly rare and curious book in quarto
Gothic—the manual of a
forgotten church—the Vigiliæ
Mortuorum
Secundum Chorum Ecclesiæ Maguntinæ.
I could not help thinking
of the wild ritual of this work,
and of its probable
influence upon the hypochondriac, when,
one evening, having informed
me abruptly that the lady
Madeline was no more, he
stated his intention of preserving
her corpse for a fortnight
(previously to its final interment),
in one of the numerous
vaults within the main walls of the
building. The worldly
reason, however, assigned for this
EDGAR ALLAN POE 17
singular proceeding, was
one which I did not feel at liberty
to dispute. The brother
had been led to his resolution (so he
told me) by consideration
of the unusual character of the
malady of the deceased, of
certain obtrusive and eager
inquiries on the part of
her medical men, and of the remote
and exposed situation of
the burial-ground of the family. I
will not deny that when I
called to mind the sinister
countenance of the person
whom I met upon the staircase, on
the day of my arrival at
the house, I had no desire to oppose
what I regarded as at best
but a harmless, and by no means
an unnatural precaution.
At the request of Usher, I
personally aided him in the
arrangements for the
temporary entombment. The body
having been encoffined, we
two alone bore it to its rest. The
vault in which we placed
it (and which had been so long
unopened that our torches,
half smothered in its oppressive
atmosphere, gave us little
opportunity for investigation) was
small, damp, and entirely
without means of admission for
light; lying, at great
depth, immediately beneath that portion
of the building in which
was my own sleeping apartment. It
had been used, apparently,
in remote feudal times, for the
worst purposes of a
donjon-keep, and, in later days, as a
place of deposit for
powder, or some other highly
combustible substance, as
a portion of its floor, and the
whole interior of a long
archway through which we reached
it, were carefully
sheathed with copper. The door, of massive
iron, had been, also,
similarly protected. Its immense weight
caused an unusually sharp,
grating sound, as it moved upon
its hinges.
Having deposited our
mournful burden upon tressels
within this region of
horror, we partially turned aside the yet
unscrewed lid of the
coffin, and looked upon the face of the
tenant. A striking
similitude between the brother and sister
now first arrested my
attention; and Usher, divining, perhaps,
THE 18 FALL OF THE HOUSE
OF USHER
my thoughts, murmured out
some few words from which I
learned that the deceased
and himself had been twins, and
that sympathies of a
scarcely intelligible nature had always
existed between them. Our
glances, however, rested not long
upon the dead—for we could
not regard her unawed. The
disease which had thus
entombed the lady in the maturity of
youth, had left, as usual
in all maladies of a strictly
cataleptical character,
the mockery of a faint blush upon the
bosom and the face, and
that suspiciously lingering smile
upon the lip which is so
terrible in death. We replaced and
screwed down the lid, and,
having secured the door of iron,
made our way, with toil,
into the scarcely less gloomy
apartments of the upper
portion of the house.
And now, some days of
bitter grief having elapsed, an
observable change came
over the features of the mental
disorder of my friend. His
ordinary manner had vanished.
His ordinary occupations
were neglected or forgotten. He
roamed from chamber to
chamber with hurried, unequal, and
objectless step. The
pallor of his countenance had assumed,
if possible, a more
ghastly hue—but the luminousness of his
eye had utterly gone out.
The once occasional huskiness of
his tone was heard no
more; and a tremulous quaver, as if of
extreme terror, habitually
characterized his utterance. There
were times, indeed, when I
thought his unceasingly agitated
mind was laboring with
some oppressive secret, to divulge
which he struggled for the
necessary courage. At times,
again, I was obliged to
resolve all into the mere inexplicable
vagaries of madness, for I
beheld him gazing upon vacancy
for long hours, in an
attitude of the profoundest attention, as
if listening to some
imaginary sound. It was no wonder that
his condition terrified—that
it infected me. I felt creeping
upon me, by slow yet
certain degrees, the wild influences of
his own fantastic yet
impressive superstitions.
EDGAR ALLAN POE 19
It was, especially, upon
retiring to bed late in the night
of the seventh or eighth
day after the placing of the lady
Madeline within the
donjon, that I experienced the full
power of such feelings.
Sleep came not near my couch—
while the hours waned and
waned away. I struggled to
reason off the nervousness
which had dominion over me. I
endeavored to believe that
much, if not all of what I felt, was
due to the bewildering
influence of the gloomy furniture of
the room—of the dark and
tattered draperies, which, tortured
into motion by the breath
of a rising tempest, swayed fitfully
to and fro upon the walls,
and rustled uneasily about the
decorations of the bed.
But my efforts were fruitless. An
irrepressible tremor
gradually pervaded my frame; and, at
length, there sat upon my
very heart an incubus of utterly
causeless alarm. Shaking
this off with a gasp and a struggle,
I uplifted myself upon the
pillows, and, peering earnestly
within the intense
darkness of the chamber, hearkened—I
know not why, except that
an instinctive spirit prompted
me—to certain low and
indefinite sounds which came,
through the pauses of the
storm, at long intervals, I knew not
whence. Overpowered by an
intense sentiment of horror,
unaccountable yet
unendurable, I threw on my clothes with
haste (for I felt that I
should sleep no more during the night),
and endeavored to arouse
myself from the pitiable condition
into which I had fallen,
by pacing rapidly to and fro through
the apartment.
I had taken but few turns
in this manner, when a light
step on an adjoining
staircase arrested my attention. I
presently recognized it as
that of Usher. In an instant
afterward he rapped, with
a gentle touch, at my door, and
entered, bearing a lamp.
His countenance was, as usual,
cadaverously wan—but,
moreover, there was a species of
mad hilarity in his eyes—an
evidently restrained hysteria in
his whole demeanor. His air
appalled me—but any thing was
THE 20 FALL OF THE HOUSE
OF USHER
preferable to the solitude
which I had so long endured, and I
even welcomed his presence
as a relief.
“And you have not seen it?”
he said abruptly, after
having stared about him
for some moments in silence—“you
have not then seen it?—but,
stay! you shall.” Thus speaking,
and having carefully
shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of
the casements, and threw
it freely open to the storm.
The impetuous fury of the
entering gust nearly lifted us
from our feet. It was,
indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly
beautiful night, and one
wildly singular in its terror and its
beauty. A whirlwind had
apparently collected its force in our
vicinity; for there were
frequent and violent alterations in the
direction of the wind; and
the exceeding density of the
clouds (which hung so low
as to press upon the turrets of the
house) did not prevent our
perceiving the life-like velocity
with which they flew
careering from all points against each
other, without passing
away into the distance. I say that even
their exceeding density
did not prevent our perceiving this—
yet we had no glimpse of
the moon or stars, nor was there
any flashing forth of the
lightning. But the under surfaces of
the huge masses of
agitated vapor, as well as all terrestrial
objects immediately around
us, were glowing in the
unnatural light of a
faintly luminous and distinctly visible
gaseous exhalation which
hung about and enshrouded the
mansion.
“You must not—you shall
not behold this!” said I,
shuddering, to Usher, as I
led him, with a gentle violence,
from the window to a seat.
“These appearances, which
bewilder you, are merely
electrical phenomena not
uncommon—or it may be that
they have their ghastly origin
in the rank miasma of the
tarn. Let us close this casement;—
the air is chilling and
dangerous to your frame. Here is one
of your favorite romances.
I will read, and you shall listen:—
and so we will pass away
this terrible night together.”
EDGAR ALLAN POE 21
The antique volume which I
had taken up was the “Mad
Trist” of Sir Launcelot
Canning; but I had called it a favorite
of Usher’s more in sad
jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there
is little in its uncouth
and unimaginative prolixity which
could have had interest
for the lofty and spiritual ideality of
my friend. It was,
however, the only book immediately at
hand; and I indulged a
vague hope that the excitement which
now agitated the
hypochondriac, might find relief (for the
history of mental disorder
is full of similar anomalies) even
in the extremeness of the
folly which I should read. Could I
have judged, indeed, by
the wild overstrained air of vivacity
with which he hearkened,
or apparently hearkened, to the
words of the tale, I might
well have congratulated myself
upon the success of my
design.
I had arrived at that
well-known portion of the story
where Ethelred, the hero
of the Trist, having sought in vain
for peaceable admission
into the dwelling of the hermit,
proceeds to make good an
entrance by force. Here, it will be
remembered, the words of
the narrative run thus:
“And Ethelred, who was by
nature of a doughty heart,
and who was now mighty
withal, on account of the
powerfulness of the wine
which he had drunken, waited no
longer to hold parley with
the hermit, who, in sooth, was of
an obstinate and maliceful
turn, but, feeling the rain upon his
shoulders, and fearing the
rising of the tempest, uplifted his
mace outright, and, with
blows, made quickly room in the
plankings of the door for
his gauntleted hand; and now
pulling therewith
sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and
tore all asunder, that the
noise of the dry and hollowsounding
wood alarumed and
reverberated throughout the
forest.”
At the termination of this
sentence I started and, for a
moment, paused; for it
appeared to me (although I at once
concluded that my excited
fancy had deceived me)—it
THE 22 FALL OF THE HOUSE
OF USHER
appeared to me that, from
some very remote portion of the
mansion, there came,
indistinctly to my ears, what might
have been, in its exact
similarity of character, the echo (but a
stifled and dull one
certainly) of the very cracking and
ripping sound which Sir
Launcelot had so particularly
described. It was, beyond
doubt, the coincidence alone which
had arrested my attention;
for, amid the rattling of the sashes
of the casements, and the
ordinary commingled noises of the
still increasing storm,
the sound, in itself, had nothing,
surely, which should have
interested or disturbed me. I
continued the story:
“But the good champion
Ethelred, now entering within
the door, was sore enraged
and amazed to perceive no signal
of the maliceful hermit;
but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of
a scaly and prodigious
demeanor, and of a fiery tongue,
which sate in guard before
a palace of gold, with a floor of
silver; and upon the wall
there hung a shield of shining brass
with this legend enwritten—
Who entereth herein, a
conqueror hath bin;
Who slayeth the dragon,
the shield he shall win.
And Ethelred uplifted his
mace, and struck upon the head of
the dragon, which fell
before him, and gave up his pesty
breath, with a shriek so
horrid and harsh, and withal so
piercing, that Ethelred
had fain to close his ears with his
hands against the dreadful
noise of it, the like whereof was
never before heard.”
Here again I paused
abruptly, and now with a feeling of
wild amazement—for there
could be no doubt whatever that,
in this instance, I did
actually hear (although from what
direction it proceeded I
found it impossible to say) a low and
apparently distant, but
harsh, protracted, and most unusual
screaming or grating sound—the
exact counterpart of what
EDGAR ALLAN POE 23
my fancy had already
conjured up for the dragon’s unnatural
shriek as described by the
romancer.
Oppressed, as I certainly
was, upon the occurrence of
this second and most
extraordinary coincidence, by a
thousand conflicting
sensations, in which wonder and
extreme terror were
predominant, I still retained sufficient
presence of mind to avoid
exciting, by any observation, the
sensitive nervousness of
my companion. I was by no means
certain that he had
noticed the sounds in question; although,
assuredly, a strange
alteration had, during the last few
minutes, taken place in
his demeanor. From a position
fronting my own, he had
gradually brought round his chair,
so as to sit with his face
to the door of the chamber; and thus
I could but partially
perceive his features, although I saw that
his lips trembled as if he
were murmuring inaudibly. His
head had dropped upon his
breast—yet I knew that he was
not asleep, from the wide
and rigid opening of the eye as I
caught a glance of it in
profile. The motion of his body, too,
was at variance with this
idea—for he rocked from side to
side with a gentle yet
constant and uniform sway. Having
rapidly taken notice of
all this, I resumed the narrative of Sir
Launcelot, which thus
proceeded:
“And now, the champion,
having escaped from the
terrible fury of the
dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen
shield, and of the
breaking up of the enchantment which was
upon it, removed the
carcass from out of the way before him,
and approached valorously
over the silver pavement of the
castle to where the shield
was upon the wall; which in sooth
tarried not for his full
coming, but fell down at his feet upon
the silver floor, with a
mighty great and terrible ringing
sound.”
No sooner had these
syllables passed my lips, than—as
if a shield of brass had
indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily
upon a floor of silver—I
became aware of a distinct, hollow,
THE 24 FALL OF THE HOUSE
OF USHER
metallic, and clangorous,
yet apparently muffled,
reverberation. Completely
unnerved, I leaped to my feet; but
the measured rocking
movement of Usher was undisturbed. I
rushed to the chair in
which he sat. His eyes were bent
fixedly before him, and
throughout his whole countenance
there reigned a stony
rigidity. But, as I placed my hand upon
his shoulder, there came a
strong shudder over his whole
person; a sickly smile
quivered about his lips; and I saw that
he spoke in a low,
hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if
unconscious of my
presence. Bending closely over him, I at
length drank in the
hideous import of his words.
“Not hear it?—yes, I hear
it, and have heard it. Long—
long—long—many minutes,
many hours, many days, have I
heard it—yet I dared not—oh,
pity me, miserable wretch that
I am!—I dared not—I dared not speak! We have put her
living
in the tomb! Said I not that my senses were acute? I
now
tell you that I heard her first feeble movements in the
hollow coffin. I heard
them—many, many days ago—yet I
dared not—I dared not speak! And now—to-night—
Ethelred—ha! ha!—the
breaking of the hermit’s door, and
the death-cry of the
dragon, and the clangor of the shield—
say, rather, the rending
of her coffin, and the grating of the
iron hinges of her prison,
and her struggles within the
coppered archway of the
vault! Oh! whither shall I fly? Will
she not be here anon? Is
she not hurrying to upbraid me for
my haste? Have I not heard
her footstep on the stair? Do I
not distinguish that heavy
and horrible beating of her heart?
Madman!”—here he sprang
furiously to his feet, and
shrieked out his syllables,
as if in the effort he were giving
up his soul—“Madman! I tell you that she now stands
without
the door!”
As if in the superhuman
energy of his utterance there
had been found the potency
of a spell, the huge antique
panels to whic
EDGAR ALLAN POE 25
the instant, their
ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the work
of the rushing gust—but
then without those doors there did
stand the lofty and
enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline of
Usher. There was blood
upon her white robes, and the
evidence of some bitter
struggle upon every portion of her
emaciated frame. For a
moment she remained trembling and
reeling to and fro upon
the threshold—then, with a low
moaning cry, fell heavily
inward upon the person of her
brother, and in her
violent and now final death-agonies, bore
him to the floor a corpse,
and a victim to the terrors he had
anticipated.
From that chamber, and
from that mansion, I fled
aghast. The storm was
still abroad in all its wrath as I found
myself crossing the old
causeway. Suddenly there shot along
the path a wild light, and
I turned to see whence a gleam so
unusual could have issued;
for the vast house and its
shadows were alone behind
me. The radiance was that of the
full, setting, and
blood-red moon which now shone vividly
through that once
barely-discernible fissure of which I have
before spoken as extending
from the roof of the building, in
a zigzag direction, to the
base. While I gazed, this fissure
rapidly widened—there came
a fierce breath of the
whirlwind—the entire orb
of the satellite burst at once upon
my sight—my brain reeled
as I saw the mighty walls rushing
asunder—there was a long
tumultuous shouting sound like
the voice of a thousand
waters—and the deep and dank tarn
at my feet closed sullenly
and silently over the fragments of
the “House of Usher.”
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