



Produced by Levent Kurnaz and Jose Menendez









The Fall of the House of Usher


  Son coeur est un luth suspendu;
  Sitot qu'on le touche il resonne.
    DE BERANGER.



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-pleasureable, 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
everyday 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 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 grey 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