I again looked up from the picture of the house reflected in the lake to the house itself. The name had passed always from father to son, and when people spoke of the “House of Usher,” they included both the family and the family home. I had learned, too, that the family had never been a large one, with many branches. I knew, however, that his family, a very old one, had long been famous for its understanding of all the arts, and for many quiet acts of kindness to the poor. It was the manner in which all this was said - it was the heart in it - which did not allow me to say no.Īlthough as boys we had been together, I really knew little about my friend.
He wrote of an illness of the body - of a sickness of the mind - and of a desire to see me - his best and, indeed, his only friend. A letter from him had reached me a wild letter, which demanded that I reply by coming to see him. We had been friends when we were boys but many years had passed since our last meeting. I was now going to spend several weeks in this house of sadness - this house of gloom. There, I could see reflected in the water a clear picture of the dead trees, and of the house and its empty, eye-like windows. I stopped my horse beside the building, on the edge of a dark and quiet lake. What was it, I asked myself, what was it that was so fearful, so frightening in my view of the House of Usher? This was a question to which I could find no answer. There was a coldness, a sickening of the heart, in which I could discover nothing to lighten the weight I felt.
I looked at the scene before me - at the house itself - at the ground around it - at the cold stone walls of the building - at its empty eye-like windows - and at a few dead trees - I looked at this scene, I say, with a complete sadness of soul, which was no healthy, earthly feeling. I do not know how it was - but, with my first sight of the building, a sense of heavy sadness filled my spirit. All day I had been riding on horseback through country with little life or beauty and in the early evening, I came within view of the House of Usher. It was a dark and soundless day near the end of the year, and clouds were hanging low in the heavens. The story was originally adapted and recorded by the U.S.
We present the first of three parts of the short story "The Fall of the House of Usher," by Edgar Allan Poe.
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