他的心儿是把悬挂的琴；轻轻一拨就铮铮有声。 ——贝朗瑞 　　

那年秋天，一个阴沉、昏暗、岑寂的日子，乌云低垂，厚重地笼罩着大地。整整一天，我孤零零地骑着马，驰过乡间一片无比萧索的旷野。暮色四合之际，令人忧伤的厄榭府终于遥遥在望。我也说不清是怎么回事，一瞥见那座建筑，心灵就充满难以忍受的忧伤。说难以忍受，是因为往常即便到了荒蛮之所或可怕的惨境，遇到那种无比严苛的自然景象，也难免有几分诗意，甚而生出几分喜悦；如今，这股忧伤的感觉却总是挥之不去。我愁肠百结地望着眼前的景物。我望着孤单的府邸和庄园里单一的山水风貌，望着荒凉的垣墙、空洞的眼睛一样的窗子、三五枝气味难闻的芦苇、几株枯木白花花的树干——心里真是愁苦至极，愁苦得俗世的情感已无法比拟，只有与染阿芙蓉癖者梦回以后的感觉作比，才足够贴切——苦痛流为日常，丑恶的面纱也摘除而去。我的心直翻腾，还冷冰冰地往下沉，凄凉得无可救赎，任是再有刺激人的想象力，也难说这是心灵的升华。究竟的怎么了？我思忖起来。到底是什么原因，使得我在注目厄谢府时如此不能自控？这是个破解不了的谜。沉思间，模糊的幻想涌满心头，却又无从捉摸。我只得退而求其次，自圆其说罢了——简单的自然景物凑在一起，确实有左右人情绪的力量，但要剖析这种感染力，即便费尽心机，也是无迹可寻。我思量道，这片景物中的一草一木，一山一水只消在细微处布置得稍有不同，带给人的那种悲伤的感觉，可能就会减轻，或许会归于消泯。这种念头一起，我策马奔至山中小湖的险岸边。小湖就傍着宅第，湖面泛着光泽，却一丝涟漪都没有，黑黢黢，阴森森，倒映出变形的灰色芦苇、惨白树干、空洞眼睛一样的窗子。我俯视着湖面，浑身颤抖，比刚才的感觉还要奇怪。

然而，目前我还是打算在这阴沉的府邸作几个星期的逗留。这座府邸的主人罗德里克。厄谢是我儿时的好朋友。我们有好多年没见过面了。可最近，我收到了一封从本国一个遥远的地方发来的信——是他写来的，信写得很急切，还非要我亲自去一趟。在他的亲笔信里，显然透着股的神经不安的味道。他提到自己患有严重的疾病——是让他备受折磨的精神错乱，还说，真的很想见到我这个最好的朋友、惟一的知己，能跟我快活地呆上一阵子，病情便会减轻云云。全信如此这般说了很多。他的请求显然出于一片真心，让人片刻都不能犹豫。于是，我马上就应邀动身了。来是来了，我却依然认为，他的召唤真是蹊跷得紧。

我们虽然是童年时代的密友，可我对这位朋友确实知之甚少。他总是有所保留，这都成了他的习惯。不过我很清楚的是，很久以前，他的先祖就以多愁善感闻名。多少年来，这一特点总是经由高贵的艺术品体现出来；最近，则表现为举办一次又一次慷慨却不张扬的慈善活动，迷恋上音乐的复杂性，而不是热爱其一致公认、一听即懂的美。我也知道一个异乎寻常的事实，厄谢家族虽历来受人尊敬，但却从未有过不衰的旁系子孙，换句话说就是，这个家族属于一代单传，除了微乎其微、偶尔出现的例外，永远都是这样。想着这座房屋的特色跟人们普遍认定的厄谢家族的性格极其吻合，想着好几百年来，房屋的特色有可能影响到厄谢家族的性格，我不由认为，或许正是因为缺乏旁系支亲，才致使财产和姓氏总是祖孙相传，世代相袭，最后财产和姓氏终于混而为一，庄园的名称渐渐消失，一个离奇而模棱两可的名称——“厄谢府”，浮出了地表。庄稼人都用这个名称，在他们心里，这个名称似乎既包含了这个家族，又包含了这座府邸。

我上面说过了，俯视湖水这一略带幼稚的举止，只是加剧了早先那种奇怪的忧伤。无疑，这迅速弥漫的迷信感——何不就称之为迷信呢？——只会益发浓重。我早就晓得，惟有心里胡思乱想，才会觉得恐怖。这是个荒谬的定律。或许正是这个缘故，当我不再看那些水中倒影，再度举目望着府邸时，我的心里就生出了奇怪的幻象。那幻象是那么荒谬，真的，我提到它是想说明折磨人的种种思绪有着何其强大的威力。我这么胡思乱想着，竟然当真相信整座府邸和整片庄园都弥散着一种气息，连同附近一带都沾染了这种气息。这气息与天空中的大气迥然不同，而是从枯木、灰墙、死水中飘散而出，阴沉、迟滞、灰扑扑的模糊难辨，像瘟疫一样不可思议。

我抖落掉心中那些只能说是梦幻的念头，更仔细地端详这座府邸的真正面貌。看来它的主要特征，在于年代极为古远，时光的痕迹使它褪尽了鲜亮的颜色。墙上布满微小的真菌，乱糟糟地挂在屋檐下，酷似蜘蛛网。不过倒也找不出破损得特别厉害的地方。没有一堵墙是倒塌的。各部分配合完好，整齐划一，个别石头却碎裂了，看上去非常不协调。这使我不由想起无人问津的地窖里那旧的木制品，多年来它们吹不到外面的一缕风，看似完整，实则早已腐烂多年。不过厄谢府除了表面上的衰颓，整幢建筑看上去丝毫没有摇摇欲坠的迹象。如果仔细观察，兴许能发现一条细微的裂缝，它就从正面屋顶上开始，曲曲弯弯顺墙而下，直至消失在阴沉沉的湖水中。

我留意着这一切，沿着一条短短的堤道，骑马来到府邸门口。一个侍从接过马缰绳。我跨进了哥特式的大厅拱门。一个蹑手蹑脚的男仆，无声地带我穿过一道道昏暗而曲折的回廊，到主人的工作室去。不知为什么，一路上看到的景物，竟使我上面提及的那种含含糊糊的愁绪，变本加厉了。周遭的一切——天花板上的雕刻、四壁黑色的帷幔、乌黑的地板、幻影似的亦步亦趋发出“咔嗒咔嗒”声的纹章甲胄——我幼时就看惯了。我毫不犹疑地承认，一切都很熟悉，可我还是很惊讶，这些普通的物件，怎么就激起了那么陌生的幻想！在一座楼梯上，我遇见了他家的医生。他面露刁奸与困惑之色，他抖索着跟我搭了句话，便溜走了。这时男仆突然打开门，引我到他主人面前。

我发现，房间极高，也很宽大，窗子狭长，尖尖地耸着，离漆黑的橡木地板老高，伸手根本触不到。几缕微弱的红光，透过格子玻璃射进来，把四下里比较显眼的物件照得清清楚楚。然而，房间远处的角落、雕花拱顶的凹陷处，却无论怎样都照射不到。墙壁上挂着深色的帷幔。家具特别多，但几乎都不舒服，又过时破旧。四处散布着书籍和乐器，却并没有给房间增添一分生机。我嗅到的只是悲伤的气息。周遭的一切都笼罩着阴沉、幽深、无可救赎的忧郁之气。

厄谢正直挺挺地躺在沙发上，见我进去，马上爬了起来，热情欢快地迎接我。我起初以为这份热诚过了火，不过是这厌世者的做作之举，可瞥了一眼他的面容，确信是出于一片真诚。我们坐了下来，有一阵子，他一语不发。我望着他，心里半是同情，半是敬畏。相信没有一个人像罗德里克。厄谢那样，在那么短的时间里，变得那么厉害。我费了好大劲才认定眼前这个人就是我幼年时代的伙伴。不过他的面部特征一直不同寻常。他面如死灰；眼睛大而清澈，明亮得无与伦比；嘴唇有点薄，颜色暗淡，但轮廓绝顶漂亮；鼻子是精致的希伯莱式样，鼻孔却大得离谱；下巴造型很好，但鲜有活力，并不引人注目；头发又软又薄，蛛网一样稀稀拉拉；这样的五官，再配上太阳穴上面异常宽阔的天庭，那容貌真是令人过目不忘。容颜上的显着特征，脸上一贯流露的神情，只消有一点夸张的地方，都会显得变化很大，如今与厄谢同处一室，我却生出了对面不相识的感觉。眼前这苍白得可怕的肤色，明亮得出奇的眼睛，尤其让我惊愕，它们甚至吓倒了我。那丝绸般柔滑的头发，也在不知不觉中，变长了，蛛丝一样纷乱，与其说是披拂在脸上，倒不如说飘飘扬扬来得贴切。任我怎么努力，也无法从这副怪异神情里，找出正常人的影子了。

我一开始就觉出了朋友的一举一动既不连贯，也不协调。很快我就发现，原来他的神经极度紧张——他有着习惯性痉挛，他总想竭力克服这一点，却终是虚弱不堪，白费力气。其实，对他这一特质我早就有思想准备：一是因为我看了他的信；二呢，我还记得他少年时代的某些脾性；其次，从他独特的身体状况和精神气质上，也可以做出推断。他忽而精神高昂，忽而落落寡欢；他的声音上一刻还优柔寡断，抖抖颤颤（此时听来全无生气），下一刻马上就变得干脆有力。那生硬、滞重、空洞、不疾不徐的吐字，沉闷、镇定、运用自如的发音，只能在沉湎酒香的醉汉或不可救药的烟鬼口中听到。他们受了烟酒的剧烈刺激后，就是这么说话的。

他就那样谈着请我来的目的，说他如何诚心诚意地盼着我，希望我给他以慰藉。他还相当详尽地谈到自以为得了什么病。他说，这是种先天性的疾病，是家族遗传，他已经绝望了，不想再治疗了。他马上又补充一句，这只是神经上的毛病，一准不久就过去了。这种病的症状，从他诸多反常的情绪中可以看得出。他一五一十全地告诉我了。尽管他的措辞和叙述方式或许很有分量，但有些话我听了后，还是既感兴趣，又觉迷惑。神经过敏把他折磨得不轻。只吃得下寡淡无味的饭菜；只能穿某种质地的料子做的衣服；所有鲜花的香味都难以忍受；即便是微弱的光线，也会刺痛眼睛；惟有特殊的声音——弦乐，才不至于使他惊骇。

看得出，反常的恐惧已把他牢牢攫住。“我要死了，”他说，“我肯定是死在这可悲的蠢病上。是的，就是这样死去，没有别的选择。我害怕将要发生的一切，怕是不是事情本身，而是结果。一想到要出什么事儿，哪怕这事儿再微乎其微，也会使我精神不安，难以承受，免不了就会瑟瑟发抖。说真的，我对危险并不憎恨，除了置身于它的绝对影响——恐怖之中。在这精神不安的情况下——在这可怜的境地中，我觉得那样的时刻早晚都会到来，到时候，我定会在与恐惧的可怕幻觉中，丧失生命和理智。”

此外，我还不时从他断断续续、意义含混的暗示中，得知了他精神上的另一个怪状。他摆脱不了对多年未敢擅离的住宅的迷信看法。他说，由于长期忍受，他家府邸的外表及实质上的特点，给他的心灵造成了影响。他摆脱不了这种影响。灰墙和塔楼的样子，映出灰墙和塔楼的暗沉沉的湖水，无不影响到他的精神状态。在想象这一影响的感染力时，他用词太模糊，我实在难以复述。

尽管一再踌躇，但他到底承认，追溯起来，如此折磨他的奇特的忧郁，多半来自一个更自然也更明显的原因，那就是，他心爱的妹妹一直重病缠身——其实眼下她就要死了。多年来，妹妹就是他惟一的伴儿，是他在这世上的仅有的最后一个亲人。“她一死，”他说，声音痛楚得让我永远都忘不掉，“厄榭家族就只剩一个了无希望的脆弱的人了。”在他说话的当口，玛德琳小姐（别人就这么叫她的）远远地从房间走过，步子慢悠悠的，她根本没注意我，转眼间，已款款消失。看见她，我心里吃惊得紧，还混杂着恐惧的感觉。我发现，要想说得清个中原因，是不可能的。我的目光追随着她远去的脚步，心头一时恍惚得很厉害。当门最终在她身后关上时，出于本能，我急切地转眼去看她哥哥的神情，但他早用双手捂住了脸，只能看见那瘦骨嶙峋的十指比平常还要苍白，指缝间，热泪滚滚而下。

玛德琳小姐的病，早令她的那些医生黔驴技穷了。她有种种异常的征候：根深蒂固的冷漠，身子一日日瘦损，短暂但频繁发作的类痫症那样的身体局部僵硬。但她一直与疾病顽抗，并没有倒卧病榻。可就在我到他们家的那个傍晚，她却向死神那摧枯拉朽的威力俯下了头颅。噩耗是她哥哥于夜间告诉我的，他的凄惶无法形容。我这才知道，那恍惚间的惊鸿一瞥，竟成永诀。我再看不到活着的玛德琳小姐了。

接下来的几日里，我和厄榭都绝口不提她的名字。那段时间，我满怀热诚，想方设法减轻朋友的哀愁。我们一起画画，一起看书，或者我听他如泣如诉地即兴弹奏六弦琴，恍若身在梦中。于是，我们愈来愈亲密了。越是亲密，我对他的内心世界了解得越发深刻，也就越发痛苦地察觉到，所有想博取他高兴的努力，都是枉费心机。他心底的哀愁仿佛与生俱来，它永不停歇地发散出来，笼罩着大宇，整个精神世界和物质世界于是一片灰暗。

我和厄榭府的主人度过了不少单独相处的庄严时刻。这将成为我一生的记忆。但要让我说他让我沉陷其中、或者说他引领我研读的究竟是什么，我还真说不出个子丑寅卯来。活跃而极端紊乱的心绪，使得一切都蒙上了一层硫磺样的淡淡光泽。他大段大段即兴演奏的挽歌，终将长在耳畔。在别的曲调之外，我痛苦地记得，他对那首激越的《冯·韦伯最后的华尔兹》进行的奇异变奏与夸张。他凭借着精巧的幻想，构思出一幅幅画面，他一下一下地刷，画面渐至模糊，令我一看就周身战栗，还因为不明白为何战栗而愈加惊悚。这些画至今仍活灵活现、历历在目，可我却无法用文字形象地描摹出来。他的画构图极为朴素，裸着容颜，真正是天然去雕饰，既吸引人，又令人感到震慑。如果世间有谁的画自有真意，那人只能是罗德里克·厄榭。至少对我来说——处在当时环境中——看到这忧郁症患者设法在画布上泼洒的纯然抽象的概念，心里就会生出浓重的畏惧，让人受不了。凝视福塞利那色彩强烈但幻象具体的画时，我则从不曾有过丝毫畏惧。

在我的朋友那些幻影般的构思中，有一个倒不那么抽象，或许可以诉诸文字，尽管可能诠释不到位。这画尺寸不大，画的是内景，要么是地窖，要么是隧道，呈矩形无限延伸。雪白的墙壁低矮，光滑，没有花纹，也没有剥落的痕迹。画面上的某些陪衬表明，这洞穴深深潜在地下，虽无比宽广，却看不到出口，也看不到火把或别的人工光源，可强烈的光线却浪浪淘淘、四下翻滚，使整个画面沐浴在一片不和时宜的可怖光辉里。

我上文已提及他听觉神经有病态，除了某些弦乐声，听到别的一切乐曲都受不了。或许正因为他只弹奏六弦琴，所以才会弹得那么空幻怪诞。但他那些激昂流畅的即兴曲却不能归结于此。我先前已委婉指出，只有在充满做作的极端兴奋时刻，他的精神才会极其镇定，高度集中。那些狂想曲的调子和歌词（他时时一边弹奏，一边压韵地即兴演唱）必定是，也的确是他精神极其镇定、高度集中的结晶。我毫不费力就记住了其中一首狂想曲的歌词。也许因为他一唱，就拨动了我的心弦，所以深深铭记住了。从它隐秘意蕴中，我想我第一次体知了厄榭的心路——他完全明白，他那高高在上的理性，已经摇摇欲坠，朝不保夕。那首狂想曲名为《闹鬼的宫殿》，全诗大致如下：

Ⅰ

绿意浓浓的山谷，

点缀着可爱仙女的房屋，

一座富丽堂皇的宫殿——

熠熠生辉，昂首苍穹。

在思想主宰一切的王国，

宫殿巍峨耸立。

六翼天使的翅羽，

从未掠过如此美丽的建筑。

Ⅱ

金黄的旗帜灿烂夺目，

在宫殿之巅漫卷飞舞；

一切都成过往烟尘，

随时光逃遁）

那时岁月静好，

清风翻飞。

红墙绿瓦容颜已褪，

幽幽芳香飘然远去。

Ⅲ

漫游在欢乐之谷

探看两扇明亮的窗户，

仙女清歌曼舞，

琴瑟悠悠。

她们绕着王位旋转，

思想之君荣光万丈，

如坐云端，

威仪而有帝王风范。

Ⅳ

星罗棋布的珍珠和红宝石，

映得美丽的宫殿大门亮闪闪。

成群结队的回音女神，

艳光四射，

川流不息飞过大门。

她们惟一的使命，

便是纵情歌唱。

千娇百媚的声音，

盛赞着国王的智慧。

Ⅴ

邪恶披一袭长袍

裹挟着悲伤，

侵入国王的至尊之地；

呜呼！叹君王凄凄赴黄泉）

昔日王家繁华落尽，

渐渐成为模糊的传说，

随风而逝。

Ⅵ

而今旅人踏进山谷，

隔着血红的窗户，

望见森森鬼影

伴着刺耳的旋律梦幻般舞动。

可怕的群魔

迅速穿过惨白的宫殿大门，

势如骇人的滔滔冥河，

脚步匆匆，无休无止，

面容木然，狂笑声声。 　　

我清楚地记得，这首曲子暗含的意味，引得我们想了很多很多。想来想去，厄榭的观念也就显山露水了。我提到他的观念，主要不是因为它新颖——因为别人也有这样的观念，而是因为厄榭对它的坚执。这种观念一般来说是认为草木都有灵性。可是，在厄榭骚乱的奇思怪想中，这观念就显得尤为大胆了，在某种情况下，他竟认为连无机世界的物，也有灵性。他对此深信不移、一派赤诚，要描述出他的这种信念，我的笔墨实在有限。不过，如我前没暗示的，他的这一信念跟他祖传的那幢灰石头房子不无干系。在他的想象中，那些石头的排列组合、遍布在石头上的真菌、伫立在四周的枯树——尤其是那虽年久月深但毫无变动的布局、那死寂湖水中的倒影，无不透着股灵性。他说，湖水和石墙散发的气息在四下里逐渐凝聚，从中可看出灵性的痕迹。听他这么说，我吓了一跳。他又接着说道，这无处不在的灵性造成的结果有目共睹，它就潜伏在那寂然无声却又纠缠不休的可怕影响力中，几百年来，都一直主宰着他家族的命运，也把他害成了眼下这副模样。对这样的看法无须发表任何评论，我也不会妄加评论。

不难想象，我们看的书也跟这种幻象不谋而合，多年来，这样的书籍对病人的精神状态起到了不小的影响。我俩一起仔细研读的书为：格里塞的《绿鸟与修道院》，马基雅维利的《魔王》，斯威登堡的《天堂与地狱》，霍尔堡的《尼古拉·克里姆的地下之行》，罗伯特·弗拉德、让·丹达涅和德·拉·尚布尔合着的《手相术》，蒂克的《忧郁的旅程》，康帕内拉的《太阳城》，等等。我们喜爱的一本书是《宗教法庭手册》，八开小本，多明我会的教士艾梅里克·德·盖朗尼所著。《庞波尼斯·梅拉》中提到的古代非洲的森林之神和牧羊神的一些章节，常常使厄榭如梦似幻地痴坐上几个小时。但他最爱读的，是一本极其珍稀的黑体、四开本奇书——一座被人遗忘的教堂的手册——《美因茨教会合唱经本中追思已亡占礼前夕经》.那个晚上，厄榭冷不丁地告诉我玛德琳小姐去世了，他说打算在下葬前，把妹妹的尸体在府邸主楼的一间地窖里存放十四天。听他一讲，我不禁想起那本奇书里的疯狂仪式，及其对这位忧郁症患者可能产生的影响。然而，他选了这么奇特的做法，自有其世俗的理由，对此我不便随意质疑。他告诉我，一想到死去的妹妹那非同寻常的病，想到医生冒失而殷切的探问，再想想祖坟偏远，周遭都是凄风苦雨，他就拿定了主意这么办。我不会否认，想起到厄榭家那天，在楼梯遭逢的那人的阴险脸色，我就不愿反对他这么做了，依我看，这么做怎么说也伤害不到谁，而且，无论如何都不算是有悖常理。

应厄榭之请，我亲自帮他料理临时的殡殓事务。尸体已入棺，我们两个抬着送往安放它的地窖。地窖已多年不曾打开过，空气令人窒息，差点儿把火把扑灭。我们没能仔细看上一看。只觉它又狭小又潮湿，透不进一丝微光。它在很深的地下，上面恰好就是我的卧室所在地。显而易见，在遥远的封建时代，地窖派的是最坏的用场——它是作为死牢存在的；近年来，则当库房使了，存放火药或其他极为易燃的物品，因为一部分地板和通向外面的那条长长拱廊的四壁，都仔仔细细包着黄铜。那扇厚重的铁门，也一样包着黄铜。在开合之际，沉重铁门上的铰链发出分外尖锐的嘎吱嘎吱声。

我们把令人悲恸的灵柩架在了可怕的地窖里，再将尚未钉上的棺盖挪开了些，然后，瞻仰遗容。我第一次注意到，他们兄妹二人的容貌惊人的相似。厄榭大概是看穿了我的心思，低低地吐出几句话，我这才了解，原来他和死者是孪生兄妹，两个人的天性里有着不可思议的共通之处，是因为懂得、所以慈悲的那种息息相通。因为心底畏惧，我们的目光没敢在死者身上停留太久。正当她青春的好时光，疾病却夺去了她的生命，像所有患有严重硬化症的人一样，胸口和脸上还似是而非地泛着薄薄一层红晕，唇上停泊着一抹可疑的微笑，那笑容逗留在死者的脸上，格外怕人。我们重新盖好棺盖，钉牢钉子，关紧铁门，拖着沉重的心，回到上面那比地窖好不到哪里的房间。

哀伤欲绝地过了几天，朋友神经紊乱的特征发生了显着变化。平日的举止踪影全无。平日要做的事忘得干干净净。他漫无目的地从一间屋子逛荡到另一间屋子，脚步匆促而凌乱。本就苍白的脸色如果说还能再苍白，那他就可以说是面无人色。那眼睛里的光亮，却当真是彻底黯淡了。再听不到他那偶尔沙哑的嗓音了。他变得声音颤抖，好似极端惊惧。这都成了他说话的一贯特点。有时我真觉得，他的心之所以永无宁日，是因为其中掩藏着令人压抑的秘密，而他还必须攒足力气，以便有勇气倾吐出来；有时候，我又不得不把一切看作是匪夷所思的狂想，因为我亲眼目睹了他长时间对着虚空苦苦凝视，仿佛在聆听某种虚幻的声音。他的状况吓住了我，也感染了我。这不足为奇。我觉得，他身上那荒诞而感人的迷信气息，有着强烈的感染力，这种力量正一寸一寸地潜入我的心底。

玛德琳小姐的遗体停放在主楼地窖中的第七或第八天的深夜，这样的感觉尤其深刻。时间一个小时一个小时地流逝，我依旧辗转难眠。我紧张得不能自拔，只好拼命排解。我极力使自己相信，这如果不全是因为房间里那蛊惑人心的阴郁家具、破烂黑幔，那多半也是源于此。当时，一场即将到来的暴风雨撩得黑幔不时在墙壁上瑟瑟飘摆，窸窸窣窣拍打着床上的装饰物。怎么排解都无济于事。抑制不住的颤抖渐渐传遍周身，最终，一个莫名恐怖的梦靥压上了心头。我喘息着，挣扎着，才算甩掉它。起身靠在枕上，仔细凝视着黑洞洞的房间，我侧耳倾听起来。我不知为何要去倾听，除非是本能使然。我倾听着某个低沉而模糊的声音，每隔很长时间，当暴风雨暂时停歇，便随之而起。我不知道它来自何方。强烈的恐惧感铺天盖地压来，说不清道不明的，惹人难受。因为觉得当晚再不能睡下去了，我匆忙穿上衣服，在房间里急促地走来走去，想把自己从所陷入的可怜境地中解脱出来。

我刚来回转上几圈，就听得附近楼梯上传来一阵轻微的脚步声。我的耳朵竖起来了。不久听出了是厄榭的脚步。转瞬间，他轻轻叩了叩房门，走了进来。手里，掌着一盏灯。他的面色照常是死尸般苍白，不过眼睛里却流溢出狂喜。他的举止中，显然带有压抑着的歇斯底里。他的模样让我惊骇。我一切都能忍受，因为长夜的孤独，是那么不堪。我甚至是欢迎他来这里。我把他的到来当成了一种安慰。

“你没看到么？”他无言地朝四周盯视片刻，突然说，“难道你那会子没看见？且慢！你会看到的。”这么说着，他谨慎地把灯遮好，快速走到一扇窗子前，猛地打开了它。窗外，雨狂风急。

一股狂风猛烈袭来，几乎把我们掀翻。虽说有暴风雨，但那个夜晚绝对美丽，是个恐怖和美丽纠结的奇特夜晚。旋风显然就在附近大施淫威，因为风向时时剧烈变动。乌云密布，且越积越厚，低垂着，仿佛要压向府邸的塔楼。乌云虽浓密，但还看得出云层活灵活现地飞速奔突，从四面八方驰来，彼此冲撞，却没有飘向远方。我是说，浓密的乌云没有遮蔽住我们的眼镜。不过我们没看到月亮和星星，也没看见一道闪电划破夜空。可厄榭府邸却雾气缭绕，被遮蔽了面目。那雾气亮光微弱，却又清晰可见。那奇异的雾光闪闪烁烁，使得大团大团翻腾着的乌云下面，还有周遭地面上的一切，都闪烁着这种光亮了。

“你不要看——你不该看这个！”我战抖着对厄榭说，一边微微使了劲，把他从窗口拉到座位上。“这些蛊惑人的景象，不过是寻常的电光现象罢了——或者，只是山湖中瘴气弥漫的缘故。关上窗子吧，空气寒凉，对你的身体可不好。这里有一部你喜爱的传奇，我念，你听，就这样一起度过这可怕的夜晚吧。” 　　我拿起的这部古书，是兰斯劳特·坎宁爵士的《疯狂盛典》，但我把它说成是厄榭爱读的一部书，可不是真心话，而是苦中作乐的说辞，因为说真的，我这朋友心高气傲、思想空灵，而这部书语言粗俗、故事冗长、想象力贫弱，很难提起他的兴趣。不过，这是手头仅有的一本，而且，我还心怀一丝侥幸，希望眼下正兴奋难安的忧郁症患者，听我念一念那荒唐透顶的情节，能从中得到些许解脱，因为神经紊乱的病史中，多有类似的情况。如果凭着他听故事时那副过度紧张、快活得发狂的样子，能判断出他是真的在听还是表面上在听，那我就可以恭祝自己妙计成功了。

我已念到很有名的那段了，故事的主人公埃塞尔雷德殚精竭虑想和平进入隐士的居所，却终是徒然，于是他付诸武力，强行闯了进去。记得这段情节是这么写的：

埃塞尔雷德生性勇猛刚强，加之刚灌过几杯，趁着酒力，就不再与隐士多费唇舌。那隐士也天性固执，心狠手辣。埃塞尔雷德感觉肩膀上落了雨点，惟恐暴风雨来临，立刻抡起钉锤，照着大门砸了几下，厚厚的门板很快就被砸出一个窟窿。他把套着臂铠的手伸进去，使劲一拉，“噼啪”一声，门被撕裂，接着扯得粉碎。干燥空洞的木板碎裂声，在整个森林里回荡着，令人心慌。

念完这话，我吃了一惊。有一会子，我没再念下去。因为我仿佛听到——虽然立刻就断定是由于激动，生了幻想，属一时错觉——我仿佛听到从府邸的一角远远传来模糊的回声，与兰斯劳特爵士特别描述的劈啪的破裂声几乎一模一样，当然较之沉闷压抑了些。毋庸置疑，正是这种巧合，吸引了我的注意力。但有了窗子的“啪嗒啪嗒”声，以及照旧混合着嘈杂之音的仍在加剧的风暴声，这个声音确实不算什么，它既不能勾起我的兴趣，也不会搅扰得我心慌意乱。我接着念道：

好斗的埃塞尔雷德进得门来，却不见那隐士的踪影，不由怒火中烧，暗自心惊。不过，他却看见了一条巨龙，通体鳞甲，口吐火舌，守在一座黄金建造的宫殿前。宫殿地面由白银铺就，墙上，挂着一个亮闪闪的黄铜盾牌，上面镌刻着——

征服者得进此门

屠龙者得赢此盾

埃塞尔雷德挥动钉锤，一锤击中龙头，龙头应声落地，正滚到他的面前，尖叫着喷出一股毒气。叫声凄厉刺耳，撕心裂肺，埃塞尔雷德不得不用双手掩住耳朵，以抵御那前所未闻的可怕声音。

念到这里，我又突然顿住，心中实在大为惊诧——因为就在这一刻，毫无疑问，我确实听到了一个声音，微弱，刺耳，拖得很长，分明从老远传来，又听得出是极不寻常的尖叫或摩擦声——读了那传奇作家的描写，脑中已幻想出了巨龙的尖叫。现在，耳边的声音居然与它一丝不差。

的确，第二次出现了如此巧合的事，各种心情翻江倒海般相互冲撞，最强烈的当数惊讶和恐惧了。可我还是保持着足够的镇静，以免我那神经敏感的伙伴看出异样而受刺激。尽管在过去的几分钟内，他的举止确实有了奇怪的变化，但我不敢肯定他是否已注意到这些声音。他本来是面对我坐的，但他把椅子慢慢转开了，现在是正对着房门。因此，我只能看到他的侧面了。他嘴唇簌簌发抖，好似在无声地念叨着什么。他的头垂到了胸口。可我知道，他没有睡着，因为扫视一下他的侧面，只见他眼睛的怔怔的，睁得很大。他的身体一直轻微地左右摇摆，始终如一，这也证明他没有睡着。我迅速把一切收入眼底，重新开始读兰斯劳特爵士的那篇文章，故事进展如下：

斗士避开巨龙的狂怒之后，想起了黄铜盾牌，想到要破除盾牌上所附的魔法。他把横在面前的龙尸搬开，无畏地跨过城堡的白银地面，走向挂着盾牌的墙壁。还没等他走到跟前，盾牌就掉在了他的脚边，砸得白银地板发出震天的可怕脆响。

我的嘴巴一吐出这些音节，刹那间，好似真有黄铜盾牌重重落在白银地板上，清晰、空洞、明显沉闷的金属哐啷声，顿时便回响在耳际。我惊得魂飞魄散，一跃而起，可厄榭依旧一下一下地摇来晃去。我冲到他的椅子前。他的双眼直勾勾地盯着面前那块地方，整张脸僵冷无匹。当我把手搭到他肩上时，他浑身上下猛地战栗起来，嘴唇上颤动着一丝惨淡的微笑。只见他结结巴巴地咕哝着，声音急促而低沉，似乎没有意识到我就站在面前。我俯下身子，凑近一听，终于明白了他话里的可怕含义。

“没听到？我可听到了，早听到了。好久——好久——好久——几分钟前，几小时前，几天前我就听到了。可我不敢——哦，可怜可怜我吧，我真是个可怜的人——我不敢说。我们把她活埋啦！我不是说过我感觉敏锐么？现在我来告诉你，她最早在空荡的棺材里弄出的动静，我就听到了。我好几天前就听到了——可我不敢——我不敢说。可现在——今晚——埃塞尔雷德——哈！哈！——隐士的门破裂了，巨龙临死前凄厉地叫着，盾牌哐啷一声掉在地上！——倒不如说，是棺材的碎裂声，是地牢铁门铰链的摩擦声，是她在黄铜廊道中的挣扎声！哦，该往哪里逃呢？难道她不会马上赶来？老天，难道她不正匆匆赶来么？来责问我草率？我不是已经听到她上楼的脚步声了么？我不是已听清她沉重而可怕的心跳了？疯子！”说着，他猛地跳起来，失魂落魄地厉声喊道：“疯子！告诉你，她现在就站的门外！”

他这声非人的锐叫似乎有种符咒的魔力，一瞬间，他指着的那扇古旧笨重的黑檀木门，竟缓缓地张开了口子。这是一阵疾风的刮开的——殊不知，门外当真站着厄榭府高个子的玛德琳小姐。她的身上裹着寿衣，那白色的袍子上，溅满血迹；瘦弱不堪的身体上到处是苦苦挣扎的痕迹。她在门槛那里颤抖了一阵，前后摇晃了一阵，然后，低低地呻吟着，重重地朝屋内的哥哥身上倒去。这死前猛烈而痛苦的一击，把她哥哥扑倒在地，成为一具死尸。他被吓死了。这倒在他的预料之中。

我心惊胆寒，逃出了那个房间，逃出了厄榭府，不觉间已踏上那条古旧的堤道。风雨依然肆虐。突然，路上射来一道奇异的光线，我回转头，想看看这道奇光究竟来自何方，因为身后除了那座府邸和它的影子，别无他物。原来是一轮血红的满月，它沉沉地悬挂西天，照得那条几乎看不见的裂缝很是惹眼。我上文中提过那条裂缝，就是那条从正面屋顶上开始、曲曲弯弯延伸到墙根的裂缝。在我举目凝望之际，裂缝迅速变宽，耳畔，旋风在怒吼着，而那血红的满月，骤然逼至眼前。在眩晕中，我看到坚固的高墙崩裂为碎片，我听到惊天动地的巨响经久不息，犹如万丈狂涛喧腾咆哮。脚下，那幽深阴冷的山湖，寂寂地淹没了砖残瓦碎的“厄榭府”。 　　（1839年）

附上英文原文

THE FALL OF
THE HOUSE OF USHER

BY

EDGAR ALLAN POE

Son cœur 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 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 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 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 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 rose 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 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 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 the 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 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 slowly 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 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. 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 great measure, to the fantastic character of the 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);
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
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 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 Œgipans, 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 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, 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.
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 anything was 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.”
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 hollow-sounding 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 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 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, 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 which the speaker pointed threw slowly back, upon 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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