The Fall of the House of Usher - Poe Edgar Allan
All this endless cloudy day, in the deep autumn silence, under a low-hanging gloomy sky, I rode alone on horseback through bleak, inhospitable places - and finally, when it was already getting dark, the gloomy House of Usher appeared before me. As soon as I saw him, I, I don’t know why, was overcome by unbearable despondency. Unbearable because it was not softened by even a small amount of almost pleasant poetic sadness, which even the harshest pictures of nature awaken in the soul, no matter whether mournful or menacing. The sight that greeted me - the house itself, the estate, and the monotonous surroundings - did not please the eye in any way: gloomy walls... indifferently and coldly looking windows... overgrown reeds here and there... white dead trunks of withered trees... all this made my soul feel inexpressibly heavy, I can compare this feeling only with what an opium smoker experiences, waking up from his dreams: with the bitterness of returning to hateful everyday life, when the veil falls again, revealing unvarnished ugliness.
My heart was filled with a chilling cold, I was tormented by melancholy, my thoughts became numb, and in vain my imagination tried to spur it on - it was powerless to tune into a more sublime mood. Why, I thought, why does the mere sight of the House of Usher depress me so much? I did not find a solution and could not cope with the vague, incomprehensible images that besieged me while I looked and thought. It remained to somehow calm down with the thought that although, of course, other combinations of the simplest objects have special power over us, we still do not know how to comprehend the nature of this power. Perhaps, I thought, all I had to do was look at the same features of the surrounding landscape from a different angle, at the details of the same picture, and the oppressive impression would soften or even disappear completely; and therefore I directed my horse to the steep shore of a black and gloomy lake, whose motionless surface barely glittered near the house itself, and looked down - but the overturned gray reeds reflected in the water, and the terrible skeletons of trees, and the cold, indifferent looking windows only made me to shudder again from a feeling even more painful than before.
Meanwhile, I had to spend several weeks in this abode of despondency. Its owner, Roderick Usher, was on friendly terms with me in his early youth; however, since then we have not seen each other for many years. But recently, in my distance, I received a letter from him - an incoherent and persistent letter: he begged me to come. In every line, painful anxiety broke through. Usher wrote about a cruel physical illness... about a depressing mental disorder... about how he longs to see me, his best and, in essence, his only friend, in the hope that my company will give him cheerfulness and at least a little ease his suffering. All this and much more was expressed with such genuine emotion, he asked me to come so fervently that I could not hesitate - and accepted the invitation, which, however, seemed very strange to me.
Although we were almost inseparable as boys, I, to tell the truth, knew little about my friend. He was always extremely reserved and reserved. I knew, however, that his family was very ancient and that all the Ashers from time immemorial were distinguished by an extraordinary refinement of feelings, which century after century was manifested in many works of sublime art, and in recent times has found outlet in good deeds, in generosity not for show, and also in a passion for music: in this family they indulged in music with passion, preferring not generally recognized works and accessible beauties to everyone, but complexity and sophistication. I was also aware of a remarkable circumstance: no matter how old the Usher family was, this tree had never given a viable branch; in other words, the family continued only in a straight line, and, apart from trifling short-term deviations, it was always like this... Perhaps, I thought, mentally comparing the appearance of this house with the fame that went about its inhabitants, and reflecting on how century, one could leave its mark on the other - perhaps because there were no lateral lines and the family estate was always passed along with the name only in a straight line, from father to son, the former name of the estate was eventually forgotten, it was replaced by a new, strange and ambiguous. “House of Usher” is how the local peasants nicknamed both the family castle and its owners.
As I already said, my childish attempt to cheer myself up by looking into the lake only strengthened the first painful impression. Undoubtedly, because I myself was aware of how quickly a superstitious premonition took possession of me (why not call it the most precise word?), it only strengthened within me even more. This, I have long known, is the dual nature of all feelings whose root is fear. And, perhaps, for this reason alone, when I again turned my gaze from the reflection in the lake to the house itself, a strange thought came to my mind - strange to the point of ridiculousness, and I only mention it later to show how strong and bright were the feelings that oppressed me. My imagination ran wild to such an extent that I already seriously believed that the very air above this house, the estate and the entire surrounding area was somehow special, it was not akin to heaven and space, but was saturated with the spirit of decay emanating from half-dead trees, from gray walls and silent lakes - everything was enveloped in pernicious mysterious fumes, dull, slow, barely visible, lead-gray.
Shaking off the obsession - for it, of course, could not be anything else - I began to peer more carefully at the true appearance of the house. First of all, I was struck by the unimaginable antiquity of these walls. Over the centuries, the colors have faded and faded. The outside was covered in lichen and mold, as if wisps of cobwebs were hanging from the eaves. However, it could not be said that the house had completely fallen into disrepair. The stonework had not collapsed anywhere; the beautiful proportionality of all parts of the building was strangely inconsistent with the visible dilapidation of each individual stone. For some reason, I imagined an ancient wooden utensil that had long since rotted away in some forgotten dungeon, but still seemed deceptively safe and sound, because for many years it had not been disturbed by the slightest breath from the outside. However, except for the cover of lichen and mold, from the outside there was no way to suspect that the house was fragile. Only a very close look could have discerned a barely noticeable crack that began under the very roof, zigzagged along the façade and was lost in the gloomy waters of the lake.
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All this endless cloudy day, in the deep autumn silence, under a low-hanging gloomy sky, I rode alone on horseback through bleak, inhospitable places - and finally, when it was already getting dark, the gloomy House of Usher appeared before me. As soon as I saw him, I, I don’t know why, was overcome by unbearable despondency. Unbearable because it was not softened by even a small amount of almost pleasant poetic sadness, which even the harshest pictures of nature awaken in the soul, no matter whether mournful or menacing. The sight that greeted me - the house itself, the estate, and the monotonous surroundings - did not please the eye in any way: gloomy walls... indifferently and coldly looking windows... overgrown reeds here and there... white dead trunks of withered trees... all this made my soul feel inexpressibly heavy, I can compare this feeling only with what an opium smoker experiences, waking up from his dreams: with the bitterness of returning to hateful everyday life, when the veil falls again, revealing unvarnished ugliness.
My heart was filled with a chilling cold, I was tormented by melancholy, my thoughts became numb, and in vain my imagination tried to spur it on - it was powerless to tune into a more sublime mood. Why, I thought, why does the mere sight of the House of Usher depress me so much? I did not find a solution and could not cope with the vague, incomprehensible images that besieged me while I looked and thought. It remained to somehow calm down with the thought that although, of course, other combinations of the simplest objects have special power over us, we still do not know how to comprehend the nature of this power. Perhaps, I thought, all I had to do was look at the same features of the surrounding landscape from a different angle, at the details of the same picture, and the oppressive impression would soften or even disappear completely; and therefore I directed my horse to the steep shore of a black and gloomy lake, whose motionless surface barely glittered near the house itself, and looked down - but the overturned gray reeds reflected in the water, and the terrible skeletons of trees, and the cold, indifferent looking windows only made me to shudder again from a feeling even more painful than before.
Meanwhile, I had to spend several weeks in this abode of despondency. Its owner, Roderick Usher, was on friendly terms with me in his early youth; however, since then we have not seen each other for many years. But recently, in my distance, I received a letter from him - an incoherent and persistent letter: he begged me to come. In every line, painful anxiety broke through. Usher wrote about a cruel physical illness... about a depressing mental disorder... about how he longs to see me, his best and, in essence, his only friend, in the hope that my company will give him cheerfulness and at least a little ease his suffering. All this and much more was expressed with such genuine emotion, he asked me to come so fervently that I could not hesitate - and accepted the invitation, which, however, seemed very strange to me.
Although we were almost inseparable as boys, I, to tell the truth, knew little about my friend. He was always extremely reserved and reserved. I knew, however, that his family was very ancient and that all the Ashers from time immemorial were distinguished by an extraordinary refinement of feelings, which century after century was manifested in many works of sublime art, and in recent times has found outlet in good deeds, in generosity not for show, and also in a passion for music: in this family they indulged in music with passion, preferring not generally recognized works and accessible beauties to everyone, but complexity and sophistication. I was also aware of a remarkable circumstance: no matter how old the Usher family was, this tree had never given a viable branch; in other words, the family continued only in a straight line, and, apart from trifling short-term deviations, it was always like this... Perhaps, I thought, mentally comparing the appearance of this house with the fame that went about its inhabitants, and reflecting on how century, one could leave its mark on the other - perhaps because there were no lateral lines and the family estate was always passed along with the name only in a straight line, from father to son, the former name of the estate was eventually forgotten, it was replaced by a new, strange and ambiguous. “House of Usher” is how the local peasants nicknamed both the family castle and its owners.
As I already said, my childish attempt to cheer myself up by looking into the lake only strengthened the first painful impression. Undoubtedly, because I myself was aware of how quickly a superstitious premonition took possession of me (why not call it the most precise word?), it only strengthened within me even more. This, I have long known, is the dual nature of all feelings whose root is fear. And, perhaps, for this reason alone, when I again turned my gaze from the reflection in the lake to the house itself, a strange thought came to my mind - strange to the point of ridiculousness, and I only mention it later to show how strong and bright were the feelings that oppressed me. My imagination ran wild to such an extent that I already seriously believed that the very air above this house, the estate and the entire surrounding area was somehow special, it was not akin to heaven and space, but was saturated with the spirit of decay emanating from half-dead trees, from gray walls and silent lakes - everything was enveloped in pernicious mysterious fumes, dull, slow, barely visible, lead-gray.
Shaking off the obsession - for it, of course, could not be anything else - I began to peer more carefully at the true appearance of the house. First of all, I was struck by the unimaginable antiquity of these walls. Over the centuries, the colors have faded and faded. The outside was covered in lichen and mold, as if wisps of cobwebs were hanging from the eaves. However, it could not be said that the house had completely fallen into disrepair. The stonework had not collapsed anywhere; the beautiful proportionality of all parts of the building was strangely inconsistent with the visible dilapidation of each individual stone. For some reason, I imagined an ancient wooden utensil that had long since rotted away in some forgotten dungeon, but still seemed deceptively safe and sound, because for many years it had not been disturbed by the slightest breath from the outside. However, except for the cover of lichen and mold, from the outside there was no way to suspect that the house was fragile. Only a very close look could have discerned a barely noticeable crack that began under the very roof, zigzagged along the façade and was lost in the gloomy waters of the lake.
Having noticed all this, I drove up the paved path to the porch. The servant accepted my horse, and I stepped under the Gothic arches of the hallway. From here the silently treading footman silently led me through endless dark and confusing passages to the owner’s “studio”. Everything that I saw along the way further intensified, I don’t know why, the vague sensations that I have already spoken about. Carved ceilings, dark tapestries on the walls, black, slightly shining parquet flooring, bizarre trophies - weapons and armor that echoed my steps - everything around was familiar, something similar had surrounded me since the cradle, and yet, God knows why, for These simple, familiar objects seemed to me to be something strange and unusual. On one of the stairs we met the family doctor, Asherov. The expression on his face seemed to me to be a mixture of low deceit and confusion. He bowed to me in fear and walked past. My guide opened the door and led me to his master.
The room was very high and spacious. Narrow lancet windows were cut so high from the black oak floor that they were out of reach.
