Actor Mickey Rourke Vows to Give ‘Lying C**sucker’ Trump a ‘Left Hook From Hell’
Books
“Second-hand books are wild
books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated
feather and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack” Virginia
Woolf.
Kurt Vonnegut The Big Trip Up Yonder
THE BIG TRIP
UP YONDER
By KURT VONNEGUT, JR.
Illustrated by KOSSIN
If it was good enough for your grandfather, forget it ... it is much too good for anyone else!
GRAMPS FORD, his chin resting on his hands, his hands on the crook of his cane, was staring irascibly at the five-foot television screen that dominated the room. On the screen, a news commentator was summarizing the day's happenings. Every thirty seconds or so, Gramps would jab the floor with his cane-tip and shout, "Hell, we did that a hundred years ago!"
Emerald and Lou, coming in from the balcony, where they had been seeking that 2185 A.D. rarity—privacy—were obliged to take seats in the back row, behind Lou's father and mother, brother and sister-in-law, son and daughter-in-law, grandson and wife, granddaughter and husband, great-grandson and wife, nephew and wife, grandnephew and wife, great-grandniece and husband, great-grandnephew and wife—and, of course, Gramps, who was in front of everybody. All save Gramps, who was somewhat withered and bent, seemed, by pre-anti-gerasone standards, to be about the same age—somewhere in their late twenties or early thirties. Gramps looked older because he had already reached 70 when anti-gerasone was invented. He had not aged in the 102 years since.
"Meanwhile," the commentator was saying, "Council Bluffs, Iowa, was still threatened by stark tragedy. But 200 weary rescue workers have refused to give up hope, and continue to dig in an effort to save Elbert Haggedorn, 183, who has been wedged for two days in a ..."
"I wish he'd get something more cheerful," Emerald whispered to Lou.
"SILENCE!" cried Gramps. "Next one shoots off his big bazoo while the TV's on is gonna find hisself cut off without a dollar—" his voice suddenly softened and sweetened—"when they wave that checkered flag at the Indianapolis Speedway, and old Gramps gets ready for the Big Trip Up Yonder."
He sniffed sentimentally, while his heirs concentrated desperately on not making the slightest sound. For them, the poignancy of the prospective Big Trip had been dulled somewhat, through having been mentioned by Gramps about once a day for fifty years.
"Dr. Brainard Keyes Bullard," continued the commentator, "President of Wyandotte College, said in an address tonight that most of the world's ills can be traced to the fact that Man's knowledge of himself has not kept pace with his knowledge of the physical world."
"Hell!" snorted Gramps. "We said that a hundred years ago!"
"In Chicago tonight," the commentator went on, "a special celebration is taking place in the Chicago Lying-in Hospital. The guest of honor is Lowell W. Hitz, age zero. Hitz, born this morning, is the twenty-five-millionth child to be born in the hospital." The commentator faded, and was replaced on the screen by young Hitz, who squalled furiously.
"Hell!" whispered Lou to Emerald. "We said that a hundred years ago."
"I heard that!" shouted Gramps. He snapped off the television set and his petrified descendants stared silently at the screen. "You, there, boy—"
"I didn't mean anything by it, sir," said Lou, aged 103.
"Get me my will. You know where it is. You kids all know where it is. Fetch, boy!" Gramps snapped his gnarled fingers sharply.
Lou nodded dully and found himself going down the hall, picking his way over bedding to Gramps' room, the only private room in the Ford apartment. The other rooms were the bathroom, the living room and the wide windowless hallway, which was originally intended to serve as a dining area, and which had a kitchenette in one end. Six mattresses and four sleeping bags were dispersed in the hallway and living room, and the daybed, in the living room, accommodated the eleventh couple, the favorites of the moment.
On Gramps' bureau was his will, smeared, dog-eared, perforated and blotched with hundreds of additions, deletions, accusations, conditions, warnings, advice and homely philosophy. The document was, Lou reflected, a fifty-year diary, all jammed onto two sheets—a garbled, illegible log of day after day of strife. This day, Lou would be disinherited for the eleventh time, and it would take him perhaps six months of impeccable behavior to regain the promise of a share in the estate. To say nothing of the daybed in the living room for Em and himself.
"Boy!" called Gramps.
"Coming, sir." Lou hurried back into the living room and handed Gramps the will.
"Pen!" said Gramps.
HE was instantly offered eleven pens, one from each couple.
"Not that leaky thing," he said, brushing Lou's pen aside. "Ah, there's a nice one. Good boy, Willy." He accepted Willy's pen. That was the tip they had all been waiting for. Willy, then—Lou's father—was the new favorite.
Willy, who looked almost as young as Lou, though he was 142, did a poor job of concealing his pleasure. He glanced shyly at the daybed, which would become his, and from which Lou and Emerald would have to move back into the hall, back to the worst spot of all by the bathroom door.
Gramps missed none of the high drama he had authored and he gave his own familiar role everything he had. Frowning and running his finger along each line, as though he were seeing the will for the first time, he read aloud in a deep portentous monotone, like a bass note on a cathedral organ.
"I, Harold D. Ford, residing in Building 257 of Alden Village, New York City, Connecticut, do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my last Will and Testament, revoking any and all former wills and codicils by me at any time heretofore made." He blew his nose importantly and went on, not missing a word, and repeating many for emphasis—repeating in particular his ever-more-elaborate specifications for a funeral.
At the end of these specifications, Gramps was so choked with emotion that Lou thought he might have forgotten why he'd brought out the will in the first place. But Gramps heroically brought his powerful emotions under control and, after erasing for a full minute, began to write and speak at the same time. Lou could have spoken his lines for him, he had heard them so often.
"I have had many heartbreaks ere leaving this vale of tears for a better land," Gramps said and wrote. "But the deepest hurt of all has been dealt me by—" He looked around the group, trying to remember who the malefactor was.
Everyone looked helpfully at Lou, who held up his hand resignedly.
Gramps nodded, remembering, and completed the sentence—"my great-grandson, Louis J. Ford."
"Grandson, sir," said Lou.
"Don't quibble. You're in deep enough now, young man," said Gramps, but he made the change. And, from there, he went without a misstep through the phrasing of the disinheritance, causes for which were disrespectfulness and quibbling.
IN the paragraph following, the paragraph that had belonged to everyone in the room at one time or another, Lou's name was scratched out and Willy's substituted as heir to the apartment and, the biggest plum of all, the double bed in the private bedroom.
"So!" said Gramps, beaming. He erased the date at the foot of the will and substituted a new one, including the time of day. "Well—time to watch the McGarvey Family." The McGarvey Family was a television serial that Gramps had been following since he was 60, or for a total of 112 years. "I can't wait to see what's going to happen next," he said.
Lou detached himself from the group and lay down on his bed of pain by the bathroom door. Wishing Em would join him, he wondered where she was.
He dozed for a few moments, until he was disturbed by someone stepping over him to get into the bathroom. A moment later, he heard a faint gurgling sound, as though something were being poured down the washbasin drain. Suddenly, it entered his mind that Em had cracked up, that she was in there doing something drastic about Gramps.
"Em?" he whispered through the panel. There was no reply, and Lou pressed against the door. The worn lock, whose bolt barely engaged its socket, held for a second, then let the door swing inward.
"Morty!" gasped Lou.
Lou's great-grandnephew, Mortimer, who had just married and brought his wife home to the Ford menage, looked at Lou with consternation and surprise. Morty kicked the door shut, but not before Lou had glimpsed what was in his hand—Gramps' enormous economy-size bottle of anti-gerasone, which had apparently been half-emptied, and which Morty was refilling with tap water.
A moment later, Morty came out, glared defiantly at Lou and brushed past him wordlessly to rejoin his pretty bride.
Shocked, Lou didn't know what to do. He couldn't let Gramps take the mousetrapped anti-gerasone—but, if he warned Gramps about it, Gramps would certainly make life in the apartment, which was merely insufferable now, harrowing.
Lou glanced into the living room and saw that the Fords, Emerald among them, were momentarily at rest, relishing the botches that the McGarveys had made of their lives. Stealthily, he went into the bathroom, locked the door as well as he could and began to pour the contents of Gramps' bottle down the drain. He was going to refill it with full-strength anti-gerasone from the 22 smaller bottles on the shelf.
The bottle contained a half-gallon, and its neck was small, so it seemed to Lou that the emptying would take forever. And the almost imperceptible smell of anti-gerasone, like Worcestershire sauce, now seemed to Lou, in his nervousness, to be pouring out into the rest of the apartment, through the keyhole and under the door.
THE bottle gurgled monotonously. Suddenly, up came the sound of music from the living room and there were murmurs and the scraping of chair-legs on the floor. "Thus ends," said the television announcer, "the 29,121st chapter in the life of your neighbors and mine, the McGarveys." Footsteps were coming down the hall. There was a knock on the bathroom door.
"Just a sec," Lou cheerily called out. Desperately, he shook the big bottle, trying to speed up the flow. His palms slipped on the wet glass, and the heavy bottle smashed on the tile floor.
The door was pushed open, and Gramps, dumbfounded, stared at the incriminating mess.
Lou felt a hideous prickling sensation on his scalp and the back of his neck. He grinned engagingly through his nausea and, for want of anything remotely resembling a thought, waited for Gramps to speak.
"Well, boy," said Gramps at last, "looks like you've got a little tidying up to do."
And that was all he said. He turned around, elbowed his way through the crowd and locked himself in his bedroom.
The Fords contemplated Lou in incredulous silence a moment longer, and then hurried back to the living room, as though some of his horrible guilt would taint them, too, if they looked too long. Morty stayed behind long enough to give Lou a quizzical, annoyed glance. Then he also went into the living room, leaving only Emerald standing in the doorway.
Tears streamed over her cheeks. "Oh, you poor lamb—please don't look so awful! It was my fault. I put you up to this with my nagging about Gramps."
"No," said Lou, finding his voice, "really you didn't. Honest, Em, I was just—"
"You don't have to explain anything to me, hon. I'm on your side, no matter what." She kissed him on one cheek and whispered in his ear, "It wouldn't have been murder, hon. It wouldn't have killed him. It wasn't such a terrible thing to do. It just would have fixed him up so he'd be able to go any time God decided He wanted him."
"What's going to happen next, Em?" said Lou hollowly. "What's he going to do?"
LOU and Emerald stayed fearfully awake almost all night, waiting to see what Gramps was going to do. But not a sound came from the sacred bedroom. Two hours before dawn, they finally dropped off to sleep.
At six o'clock, they arose again, for it was time for their generation to eat breakfast in the kitchenette. No one spoke to them. They had twenty minutes in which to eat, but their reflexes were so dulled by the bad night that they had hardly swallowed two mouthfuls of egg-type processed seaweed before it was time to surrender their places to their son's generation.
Then, as was the custom for whoever had been most recently disinherited, they began preparing Gramps' breakfast, which would presently be served to him in bed, on a tray. They tried to be cheerful about it. The toughest part of the job was having to handle the honest-to-God eggs and bacon and oleomargarine, on which Gramps spent so much of the income from his fortune.
"Well," said Emerald, "I'm not going to get all panicky until I'm sure there's something to be panicky about."
"Maybe he doesn't know what it was I busted," Lou said hopefully.
"Probably thinks it was your watch crystal," offered Eddie, their son, who was toying apathetically with his buckwheat-type processed sawdust cakes.
"Don't get sarcastic with your father," said Em, "and don't talk with your mouth full, either."
"I'd like to see anybody take a mouthful of this stuff and not say something," complained Eddie, who was 73. He glanced at the clock. "It's time to take Gramps his breakfast, you know."
"Yeah, it is, isn't it?" said Lou weakly. He shrugged. "Let's have the tray, Em."
"We'll both go."
Walking slowly, smiling bravely, they found a large semi-circle of long-faced Fords standing around the bedroom door.
Em knocked. "Gramps," she called brightly, "break-fast is rea-dy."
There was no reply and she knocked again, harder.
The door swung open before her fist. In the middle of the room, the soft, deep, wide, canopied bed, the symbol of the sweet by-and-by to every Ford, was empty.
A sense of death, as unfamiliar to the Fords as Zoroastrianism or the causes of the Sepoy Mutiny, stilled every voice, slowed every heart. Awed, the heirs began to search gingerly, under the furniture and behind the drapes, for all that was mortal of Gramps, father of the clan.
BUT Gramps had left not his Earthly husk but a note, which Lou finally found on the dresser, under a paperweight which was a treasured souvenir from the World's Fair of 2000. Unsteadily, Lou read it aloud:
"'Somebody who I have sheltered and protected and taught the best I know how all these years last night turned on me like a mad dog and diluted my anti-gerasone, or tried to. I am no longer a young man. I can no longer bear the crushing burden of life as I once could. So, after last night's bitter experience, I say good-by. The cares of this world will soon drop away like a cloak of thorns and I shall know peace. By the time you find this, I will be gone.'"
"Gosh," said Willy brokenly, "he didn't even get to see how the 5000-mile Speedway Race was going to come out."
"Or the Solar Series," Eddie said, with large mournful eyes.
"Or whether Mrs. McGarvey got her eyesight back," added Morty.
"There's more," said Lou, and he began reading aloud again: "'I, Harold D. Ford, etc., do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my last Will and Testament, revoking any and all former wills and codicils by me at any time heretofore made.'"
"No!" cried Willy. "Not another one!"
"'I do stipulate,'" read Lou, "'that all of my property, of whatsoever kind and nature, not be divided, but do devise and bequeath it to be held in common by my issue, without regard for generation, equally, share and share alike.'"
"Issue?" said Emerald.
Lou included the multitude in a sweep of his hand. "It means we all own the whole damn shootin' match."
Each eye turned instantly to the bed.
"Share and share alike?" asked Morty.
"Actually," said Willy, who was the oldest one present, "it's just like the old system, where the oldest people head up things with their headquarters in here and—"
"I like that!" exclaimed Em. "Lou owns as much of it as you do, and I say it ought to be for the oldest one who's still working. You can snooze around here all day, waiting for your pension check, while poor Lou stumbles in here after work, all tuckered out, and—"
"How about letting somebody who's never had any privacy get a little crack at it?" Eddie demanded hotly. "Hell, you old people had plenty of privacy back when you were kids. I was born and raised in the middle of that goddamn barracks in the hall! How about—"
"Yeah?" challenged Morty. "Sure, you've all had it pretty tough, and my heart bleeds for you. But try honeymooning in the hall for a real kick."
"Silence!" shouted Willy imperiously. "The next person who opens his mouth spends the next sixth months by the bathroom. Now clear out of my room. I want to think."
A vase shattered against the wall, inches above his head.
IN the next moment, a free-for-all was under way, with each couple battling to eject every other couple from the room. Fighting coalitions formed and dissolved with the lightning changes of the tactical situation. Em and Lou were thrown into the hall, where they organized others in the same situation, and stormed back into the room.
After two hours of struggle, with nothing like a decision in sight, the cops broke in, followed by television cameramen from mobile units.
For the next half-hour, patrol wagons and ambulances hauled away Fords, and then the apartment was still and spacious.
An hour later, films of the last stages of the riot were being televised to 500,000,000 delighted viewers on the Eastern Seaboard.
In the stillness of the three-room Ford apartment on the 76th floor of Building 257, the television set had been left on. Once more the air was filled with the cries and grunts and crashes of the fray, coming harmlessly now from the loudspeaker.
The battle also appeared on the screen of the television set in the police station, where the Fords and their captors watched with professional interest.
Em and Lou, in adjacent four-by-eight cells, were stretched out peacefully on their cots.
"Em," called Lou through the partition, "you got a washbasin all your own, too?"
"Sure. Washbasin, bed, light—the works. And we thought Gramps' room was something. How long has this been going on?" She held out her hand. "For the first time in forty years, hon, I haven't got the shakes—look at me!"
"Cross your fingers," said Lou. "The lawyer's going to try to get us a year."
"Gee!" Em said dreamily. "I wonder what kind of wires you'd have to pull to get put away in solitary?"
"All right, pipe down," said the turnkey, "or I'll toss the whole kit and caboodle of you right out. And first one who lets on to anybody outside how good jail is ain't never getting back in!"
The prisoners instantly fell silent.
THE living room of the apartment darkened for a moment as the riot scenes faded on the television screen, and then the face of the announcer appeared, like the Sun coming from behind a cloud. "And now, friends," he said, "I have a special message from the makers of anti-gerasone, a message for all you folks over 150. Are you hampered socially by wrinkles, by stiffness of joints and discoloration or loss of hair, all because these things came upon you before anti-gerasone was developed? Well, if you are, you need no longer suffer, need no longer feel different and out of things.
"After years of research, medical science has now developed Super-anti-gerasone! In weeks—yes, weeks—you can look, feel and act as young as your great-great-grandchildren! Wouldn't you pay $5,000 to be indistinguishable from everybody else? Well, you don't have to. Safe, tested Super-anti-gerasone costs you only a few dollars a day.
"Write now for your free trial carton. Just put your name and address on a dollar postcard, and mail it to 'Super,' Box 500,000, Schenectady, N. Y. Have you got that? I'll repeat it. 'Super,' Box 500,000 ..."
Underlining the announcer's words was the scratching of Gramps' pen, the one Willy had given him the night before. He had come in, a few minutes earlier, from the Idle Hour Tavern, which commanded a view of Building 257 from across the square of asphalt known as the Alden Village Green. He had called a cleaning woman to come straighten the place up, then had hired the best lawyer in town to get his descendants a conviction, a genius who had never gotten a client less than a year and a day. Gramps had then moved the daybed before the television screen, so that he could watch from a reclining position. It was something he'd dreamed of doing for years.
"Schen-ec-ta-dy," murmured Gramps. "Got it!" His face had changed remarkably. His facial muscles seemed to have relaxed, revealing kindness and equanimity under what had been taut lines of bad temper. It was almost as though his trial package of Super-anti-gerasone had already arrived. When something amused him on television, he smiled easily, rather than barely managing to lengthen the thin line of his mouth a millimeter.
Life was good. He could hardly wait to see what was going to happen next.
—KURT VONNEGUT, JR.
KURT VONNEGUT 2br02b
Got a problem? Just pick up the phone. It solved them all—and all the same way!
2
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by KURT VONNEGUT, JR.
Everything was perfectly swell.
There were no prisons, no slums, no insane asylums, no cripples, no poverty, no wars.
All diseases were conquered. So was old age.
Death, barring accidents, was an adventure for volunteers.
The population of the United States was stabilized at forty-million souls.
One bright morning in the Chicago Lying-in Hospital, a man named Edward K. Wehling, Jr., waited for his wife to give birth. He was the only man waiting. Not many people were born a day any more.
Wehling was fifty-six, a mere stripling in a population whose average age was one hundred and twenty-nine.
X-rays had revealed that his wife was going to have triplets. The children would be his first.
Young Wehling was hunched in his chair, his head in his hand. He was so rumpled, so still and colorless as to be virtually invisible. His camouflage was perfect, since the waiting room had a disorderly and demoralized air, too. Chairs and ashtrays had been moved away from the walls. The floor was paved with spattered dropcloths.
The room was being redecorated. It was being redecorated as a memorial to a man who had volunteered to die.
A sardonic old man, about two hundred years old, sat on a stepladder, painting a mural he did not like. Back in the days when people aged visibly, his age would have been guessed at thirty-five or so. Aging had touched him that much before the cure for aging was found.
The mural he was working on depicted a very neat garden. Men and women in white, doctors and nurses, turned the soil, planted seedlings, sprayed bugs, spread fertilizer.
Men and women in purple uniforms pulled up weeds, cut down plants that were old and sickly, raked leaves, carried refuse to trash-burners.
Never, never, never—not even in medieval Holland nor old Japan—had a garden been more formal, been better tended. Every plant had all the loam, light, water, air and nourishment it could use.
A hospital orderly came down the corridor, singing under his breath a popular song:
If you don't like my kisses, honey,
Here's what I will do:
I'll go see a girl in purple,
Kiss this sad world toodle-oo.
If you don't want my lovin',
Why should I take up all this space?
I'll get off this old planet,
Let some sweet baby have my place.
The orderly looked in at the mural and the muralist. "Looks so real," he said, "I can practically imagine I'm standing in the middle of it."
"What makes you think you're not in it?" said the painter. He gave a satiric smile. "It's called 'The Happy Garden of Life,' you know."
"That's good of Dr. Hitz," said the orderly.
He was referring to one of the male figures in white, whose head was a portrait of Dr. Benjamin Hitz, the hospital's Chief Obstetrician. Hitz was a blindingly handsome man.
"Lot of faces still to fill in," said the orderly. He meant that the faces of many of the figures in the mural were still blank. All blanks were to be filled with portraits of important people on either the hospital staff or from the Chicago Office of the Federal Bureau of Termination.
"Must be nice to be able to make pictures that look like something," said the orderly.
The painter's face curdled with scorn. "You think I'm proud of this daub?" he said. "You think this is my idea of what life really looks like?"
"What's your idea of what life looks like?" said the orderly.
The painter gestured at a foul dropcloth. "There's a good picture of it," he said. "Frame that, and you'll have a picture a damn sight more honest than this one."
"You're a gloomy old duck, aren't you?" said the orderly.
"Is that a crime?" said the painter.
The orderly shrugged. "If you don't like it here, Grandpa—" he said, and he finished the thought with the trick telephone number that people who didn't want to live any more were supposed to call. The zero in the telephone number he pronounced "naught."
The number was: "2 B R 0 2 B."
It was the telephone number of an institution whose fanciful sobriquets included: "Automat," "Birdland," "Cannery," "Catbox," "De-louser," "Easy-go," "Good-by, Mother," "Happy Hooligan," "Kiss-me-quick," "Lucky Pierre," "Sheepdip," "Waring Blendor," "Weep-no-more" and "Why Worry?"
"To be or not to be" was the telephone number of the municipal gas chambers of the Federal Bureau of Termination.
The painter thumbed his nose at the orderly. "When I decide it's time to go," he said, "it won't be at the Sheepdip."
"A do-it-yourselfer, eh?" said the orderly. "Messy business, Grandpa. Why don't you have a little consideration for the people who have to clean up after you?"
The painter expressed with an obscenity his lack of concern for the tribulations of his survivors. "The world could do with a good deal more mess, if you ask me," he said.
The orderly laughed and moved on.
Wehling, the waiting father, mumbled something without raising his head. And then he fell silent again.
A coarse, formidable woman strode into the waiting room on spike heels. Her shoes, stockings, trench coat, bag and overseas cap were all purple, the purple the painter called "the color of grapes on Judgment Day."
The medallion on her purple musette bag was the seal of the Service Division of the Federal Bureau of Termination, an eagle perched on a turnstile.
The woman had a lot of facial hair—an unmistakable mustache, in fact. A curious thing about gas-chamber hostesses was that, no matter how lovely and feminine they were when recruited, they all sprouted mustaches within five years or so.
"Is this where I'm supposed to come?" she said to the painter.
"A lot would depend on what your business was," he said. "You aren't about to have a baby, are you?"
"They told me I was supposed to pose for some picture," she said. "My name's Leora Duncan." She waited.
"And you dunk people," he said.
"What?" she said.
"Skip it," he said.
"That sure is a beautiful picture," she said. "Looks just like heaven or something."
"Or something," said the painter. He took a list of names from his smock pocket. "Duncan, Duncan, Duncan," he said, scanning the list. "Yes—here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left."
She studied the mural bleakly. "Gee," she said, "they're all the same to me. I don't know anything about art."
"A body's a body, eh?" he said. "All righty. As a master of fine art, I recommend this body here." He indicated a faceless figure of a woman who was carrying dried stalks to a trash-burner.
"Well," said Leora Duncan, "that's more the disposal people, isn't it? I mean, I'm in service. I don't do any disposing."
The painter clapped his hands in mock delight. "You say you don't know anything about art, and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do! Of course the sheave-carrier is wrong for a hostess! A snipper, a pruner—that's more your line." He pointed to a figure in purple who was sawing a dead branch from an apple tree. "How about her?" he said. "You like her at all?"
"Gosh—" she said, and she blushed and became humble—"that—that puts me right next to Dr. Hitz."
"That upsets you?" he said.
"Good gravy, no!" she said. "It's—it's just such an honor."
"Ah, You... you admire him, eh?" he said.
"Who doesn't admire him?" she said, worshiping the portrait of Hitz. It was the portrait of a tanned, white-haired, omnipotent Zeus, two hundred and forty years old. "Who doesn't admire him?" she said again. "He was responsible for setting up the very first gas chamber in Chicago."
"Nothing would please me more," said the painter, "than to put you next to him for all time. Sawing off a limb—that strikes you as appropriate?"
"That is kind of like what I do," she said. She was demure about what she did. What she did was make people comfortable while she killed them.
And, while Leora Duncan was posing for her portrait, into the waitingroom bounded Dr. Hitz himself. He was seven feet tall, and he boomed with importance, accomplishments, and the joy of living.
"Well, Miss Duncan! Miss Duncan!" he said, and he made a joke. "What are you doing here?" he said. "This isn't where the people leave. This is where they come in!"
"We're going to be in the same picture together," she said shyly.
"Good!" said Dr. Hitz heartily. "And, say, isn't that some picture?"
"I sure am honored to be in it with you," she said.
"Let me tell you," he said, "I'm honored to be in it with you. Without women like you, this wonderful world we've got wouldn't be possible."
He saluted her and moved toward the door that led to the delivery rooms. "Guess what was just born," he said.
"I can't," she said.
"Triplets!" he said.
"Triplets!" she said. She was exclaiming over the legal implications of triplets.
The law said that no newborn child could survive unless the parents of the child could find someone who would volunteer to die. Triplets, if they were all to live, called for three volunteers.
"Do the parents have three volunteers?" said Leora Duncan.
"Last I heard," said Dr. Hitz, "they had one, and were trying to scrape another two up."
"I don't think they made it," she said. "Nobody made three appointments with us. Nothing but singles going through today, unless somebody called in after I left. What's the name?"
"Wehling," said the waiting father, sitting up, red-eyed and frowzy. "Edward K. Wehling, Jr., is the name of the happy father-to-be."
He raised his right hand, looked at a spot on the wall, gave a hoarsely wretched chuckle. "Present," he said.
"Oh, Mr. Wehling," said Dr. Hitz, "I didn't see you."
"The invisible man," said Wehling.
"They just phoned me that your triplets have been born," said Dr. Hitz. "They're all fine, and so is the mother. I'm on my way in to see them now."
"Hooray," said Wehling emptily.
"You don't sound very happy," said Dr. Hitz.
"What man in my shoes wouldn't be happy?" said Wehling. He gestured with his hands to symbolize care-free simplicity. "All I have to do is pick out which one of the triplets is going to live, then deliver my maternal grandfather to the Happy Hooligan, and come back here with a receipt."
Dr. Hitz became rather severe with Wehling, towered over him. "You don't believe in population control, Mr. Wehling?" he said.
"I think it's perfectly keen," said Wehling tautly.
"Would you like to go back to the good old days, when the population of the Earth was twenty billion—about to become forty billion, then eighty billion, then one hundred and sixty billion? Do you know what a drupelet is, Mr. Wehling?" said Hitz.
"Nope," said Wehling sulkily.
"A drupelet, Mr. Wehling, is one of the little knobs, one of the little pulpy grains of a blackberry," said Dr. Hitz. "Without population control, human beings would now be packed on this surface of this old planet like drupelets on a blackberry! Think of it!"
Wehling continued to stare at the same spot on the wall.
"In the year 2000," said Dr. Hitz, "before scientists stepped in and laid down the law, there wasn't even enough drinking water to go around, and nothing to eat but sea-weed—and still people insisted on their right to reproduce like jackrabbits. And their right, if possible, to live forever."
"I want those kids," said Wehling quietly. "I want all three of them."
"Of course you do," said Dr. Hitz. "That's only human."
"I don't want my grandfather to die, either," said Wehling.
"Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the Catbox," said Dr. Hitz gently, sympathetically.
"I wish people wouldn't call it that," said Leora Duncan.
"What?" said Dr. Hitz.
"I wish people wouldn't call it 'the Catbox,' and things like that," she said. "It gives people the wrong impression."
"You're absolutely right," said Dr. Hitz. "Forgive me." He corrected himself, gave the municipal gas chambers their official title, a title no one ever used in conversation. "I should have said, 'Ethical Suicide Studios,'" he said.
"That sounds so much better," said Leora Duncan.
"This child of yours—whichever one you decide to keep, Mr. Wehling," said Dr. Hitz. "He or she is going to live on a happy, roomy, clean, rich planet, thanks to population control. In a garden like that mural there." He shook his head. "Two centuries ago, when I was a young man, it was a hell that nobody thought could last another twenty years. Now centuries of peace and plenty stretch before us as far as the imagination cares to travel."
He smiled luminously.
The smile faded as he saw that Wehling had just drawn a revolver.
Wehling shot Dr. Hitz dead. "There's room for one—a great big one," he said.
And then he shot Leora Duncan. "It's only death," he said to her as she fell. "There! Room for two."
And then he shot himself, making room for all three of his children.
Nobody came running. Nobody, seemingly, heard the shots.
The painter sat on the top of his stepladder, looking down reflectively on the sorry scene.
The painter pondered the mournful puzzle of life demanding to be born and, once born, demanding to be fruitful ... to multiply and to live as long as possible—to do all that on a very small planet that would have to last forever.
All the answers that the painter could think of were grim. Even grimmer, surely, than a Catbox, a Happy Hooligan, an Easy Go. He thought of war. He thought of plague. He thought of starvation.
He knew that he would never paint again. He let his paintbrush fall to the drop-cloths below. And then he decided he had had about enough of life in the Happy Garden of Life, too, and he came slowly down from the ladder.
He took Wehling's pistol, really intending to shoot himself.
But he didn't have the nerve.
And then he saw the telephone booth in the corner of the room. He went to it, dialed the well-remembered number: "2 B R 0 2 B."
"Federal Bureau of Termination," said the very warm voice of a hostess.
"How soon could I get an appointment?" he asked, speaking very carefully.
"We could probably fit you in late this afternoon, sir," she said. "It might even be earlier, if we get a cancellation."
"All right," said the painter, "fit me in, if you please." And he gave her his name, spelling it out.
"Thank you, sir," said the hostess. "Your city thanks you; your country thanks you; your planet thanks you. But the deepest thanks of all is from future generations."
THE END
2
B
R
0
2
B
by KURT VONNEGUT, JR.
Everything was perfectly swell.
There were no prisons, no slums, no insane asylums, no cripples, no poverty, no wars.
All diseases were conquered. So was old age.
Death, barring accidents, was an adventure for volunteers.
The population of the United States was stabilized at forty-million souls.
One bright morning in the Chicago Lying-in Hospital, a man named Edward K. Wehling, Jr., waited for his wife to give birth. He was the only man waiting. Not many people were born a day any more.
Wehling was fifty-six, a mere stripling in a population whose average age was one hundred and twenty-nine.
X-rays had revealed that his wife was going to have triplets. The children would be his first.
Young Wehling was hunched in his chair, his head in his hand. He was so rumpled, so still and colorless as to be virtually invisible. His camouflage was perfect, since the waiting room had a disorderly and demoralized air, too. Chairs and ashtrays had been moved away from the walls. The floor was paved with spattered dropcloths.
The room was being redecorated. It was being redecorated as a memorial to a man who had volunteered to die.
A sardonic old man, about two hundred years old, sat on a stepladder, painting a mural he did not like. Back in the days when people aged visibly, his age would have been guessed at thirty-five or so. Aging had touched him that much before the cure for aging was found.
The mural he was working on depicted a very neat garden. Men and women in white, doctors and nurses, turned the soil, planted seedlings, sprayed bugs, spread fertilizer.
Men and women in purple uniforms pulled up weeds, cut down plants that were old and sickly, raked leaves, carried refuse to trash-burners.
Never, never, never—not even in medieval Holland nor old Japan—had a garden been more formal, been better tended. Every plant had all the loam, light, water, air and nourishment it could use.
A hospital orderly came down the corridor, singing under his breath a popular song:
If you don't like my kisses, honey,
Here's what I will do:
I'll go see a girl in purple,
Kiss this sad world toodle-oo.
If you don't want my lovin',
Why should I take up all this space?
I'll get off this old planet,
Let some sweet baby have my place.
The orderly looked in at the mural and the muralist. "Looks so real," he said, "I can practically imagine I'm standing in the middle of it."
"What makes you think you're not in it?" said the painter. He gave a satiric smile. "It's called 'The Happy Garden of Life,' you know."
"That's good of Dr. Hitz," said the orderly.
He was referring to one of the male figures in white, whose head was a portrait of Dr. Benjamin Hitz, the hospital's Chief Obstetrician. Hitz was a blindingly handsome man.
"Lot of faces still to fill in," said the orderly. He meant that the faces of many of the figures in the mural were still blank. All blanks were to be filled with portraits of important people on either the hospital staff or from the Chicago Office of the Federal Bureau of Termination.
"Must be nice to be able to make pictures that look like something," said the orderly.
The painter's face curdled with scorn. "You think I'm proud of this daub?" he said. "You think this is my idea of what life really looks like?"
"What's your idea of what life looks like?" said the orderly.
The painter gestured at a foul dropcloth. "There's a good picture of it," he said. "Frame that, and you'll have a picture a damn sight more honest than this one."
"You're a gloomy old duck, aren't you?" said the orderly.
"Is that a crime?" said the painter.
The orderly shrugged. "If you don't like it here, Grandpa—" he said, and he finished the thought with the trick telephone number that people who didn't want to live any more were supposed to call. The zero in the telephone number he pronounced "naught."
The number was: "2 B R 0 2 B."
It was the telephone number of an institution whose fanciful sobriquets included: "Automat," "Birdland," "Cannery," "Catbox," "De-louser," "Easy-go," "Good-by, Mother," "Happy Hooligan," "Kiss-me-quick," "Lucky Pierre," "Sheepdip," "Waring Blendor," "Weep-no-more" and "Why Worry?"
"To be or not to be" was the telephone number of the municipal gas chambers of the Federal Bureau of Termination.
The painter thumbed his nose at the orderly. "When I decide it's time to go," he said, "it won't be at the Sheepdip."
"A do-it-yourselfer, eh?" said the orderly. "Messy business, Grandpa. Why don't you have a little consideration for the people who have to clean up after you?"
The painter expressed with an obscenity his lack of concern for the tribulations of his survivors. "The world could do with a good deal more mess, if you ask me," he said.
The orderly laughed and moved on.
Wehling, the waiting father, mumbled something without raising his head. And then he fell silent again.
A coarse, formidable woman strode into the waiting room on spike heels. Her shoes, stockings, trench coat, bag and overseas cap were all purple, the purple the painter called "the color of grapes on Judgment Day."
The medallion on her purple musette bag was the seal of the Service Division of the Federal Bureau of Termination, an eagle perched on a turnstile.
The woman had a lot of facial hair—an unmistakable mustache, in fact. A curious thing about gas-chamber hostesses was that, no matter how lovely and feminine they were when recruited, they all sprouted mustaches within five years or so.
"Is this where I'm supposed to come?" she said to the painter.
"A lot would depend on what your business was," he said. "You aren't about to have a baby, are you?"
"They told me I was supposed to pose for some picture," she said. "My name's Leora Duncan." She waited.
"And you dunk people," he said.
"What?" she said.
"Skip it," he said.
"That sure is a beautiful picture," she said. "Looks just like heaven or something."
"Or something," said the painter. He took a list of names from his smock pocket. "Duncan, Duncan, Duncan," he said, scanning the list. "Yes—here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left."
She studied the mural bleakly. "Gee," she said, "they're all the same to me. I don't know anything about art."
"A body's a body, eh?" he said. "All righty. As a master of fine art, I recommend this body here." He indicated a faceless figure of a woman who was carrying dried stalks to a trash-burner.
"Well," said Leora Duncan, "that's more the disposal people, isn't it? I mean, I'm in service. I don't do any disposing."
The painter clapped his hands in mock delight. "You say you don't know anything about art, and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do! Of course the sheave-carrier is wrong for a hostess! A snipper, a pruner—that's more your line." He pointed to a figure in purple who was sawing a dead branch from an apple tree. "How about her?" he said. "You like her at all?"
"Gosh—" she said, and she blushed and became humble—"that—that puts me right next to Dr. Hitz."
"That upsets you?" he said.
"Good gravy, no!" she said. "It's—it's just such an honor."
"Ah, You... you admire him, eh?" he said.
"Who doesn't admire him?" she said, worshiping the portrait of Hitz. It was the portrait of a tanned, white-haired, omnipotent Zeus, two hundred and forty years old. "Who doesn't admire him?" she said again. "He was responsible for setting up the very first gas chamber in Chicago."
"Nothing would please me more," said the painter, "than to put you next to him for all time. Sawing off a limb—that strikes you as appropriate?"
"That is kind of like what I do," she said. She was demure about what she did. What she did was make people comfortable while she killed them.
And, while Leora Duncan was posing for her portrait, into the waitingroom bounded Dr. Hitz himself. He was seven feet tall, and he boomed with importance, accomplishments, and the joy of living.
"Well, Miss Duncan! Miss Duncan!" he said, and he made a joke. "What are you doing here?" he said. "This isn't where the people leave. This is where they come in!"
"We're going to be in the same picture together," she said shyly.
"Good!" said Dr. Hitz heartily. "And, say, isn't that some picture?"
"I sure am honored to be in it with you," she said.
"Let me tell you," he said, "I'm honored to be in it with you. Without women like you, this wonderful world we've got wouldn't be possible."
He saluted her and moved toward the door that led to the delivery rooms. "Guess what was just born," he said.
"I can't," she said.
"Triplets!" he said.
"Triplets!" she said. She was exclaiming over the legal implications of triplets.
The law said that no newborn child could survive unless the parents of the child could find someone who would volunteer to die. Triplets, if they were all to live, called for three volunteers.
"Do the parents have three volunteers?" said Leora Duncan.
"Last I heard," said Dr. Hitz, "they had one, and were trying to scrape another two up."
"I don't think they made it," she said. "Nobody made three appointments with us. Nothing but singles going through today, unless somebody called in after I left. What's the name?"
"Wehling," said the waiting father, sitting up, red-eyed and frowzy. "Edward K. Wehling, Jr., is the name of the happy father-to-be."
He raised his right hand, looked at a spot on the wall, gave a hoarsely wretched chuckle. "Present," he said.
"Oh, Mr. Wehling," said Dr. Hitz, "I didn't see you."
"The invisible man," said Wehling.
"They just phoned me that your triplets have been born," said Dr. Hitz. "They're all fine, and so is the mother. I'm on my way in to see them now."
"Hooray," said Wehling emptily.
"You don't sound very happy," said Dr. Hitz.
"What man in my shoes wouldn't be happy?" said Wehling. He gestured with his hands to symbolize care-free simplicity. "All I have to do is pick out which one of the triplets is going to live, then deliver my maternal grandfather to the Happy Hooligan, and come back here with a receipt."
Dr. Hitz became rather severe with Wehling, towered over him. "You don't believe in population control, Mr. Wehling?" he said.
"I think it's perfectly keen," said Wehling tautly.
"Would you like to go back to the good old days, when the population of the Earth was twenty billion—about to become forty billion, then eighty billion, then one hundred and sixty billion? Do you know what a drupelet is, Mr. Wehling?" said Hitz.
"Nope," said Wehling sulkily.
"A drupelet, Mr. Wehling, is one of the little knobs, one of the little pulpy grains of a blackberry," said Dr. Hitz. "Without population control, human beings would now be packed on this surface of this old planet like drupelets on a blackberry! Think of it!"
Wehling continued to stare at the same spot on the wall.
"In the year 2000," said Dr. Hitz, "before scientists stepped in and laid down the law, there wasn't even enough drinking water to go around, and nothing to eat but sea-weed—and still people insisted on their right to reproduce like jackrabbits. And their right, if possible, to live forever."
"I want those kids," said Wehling quietly. "I want all three of them."
"Of course you do," said Dr. Hitz. "That's only human."
"I don't want my grandfather to die, either," said Wehling.
"Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the Catbox," said Dr. Hitz gently, sympathetically.
"I wish people wouldn't call it that," said Leora Duncan.
"What?" said Dr. Hitz.
"I wish people wouldn't call it 'the Catbox,' and things like that," she said. "It gives people the wrong impression."
"You're absolutely right," said Dr. Hitz. "Forgive me." He corrected himself, gave the municipal gas chambers their official title, a title no one ever used in conversation. "I should have said, 'Ethical Suicide Studios,'" he said.
"That sounds so much better," said Leora Duncan.
"This child of yours—whichever one you decide to keep, Mr. Wehling," said Dr. Hitz. "He or she is going to live on a happy, roomy, clean, rich planet, thanks to population control. In a garden like that mural there." He shook his head. "Two centuries ago, when I was a young man, it was a hell that nobody thought could last another twenty years. Now centuries of peace and plenty stretch before us as far as the imagination cares to travel."
He smiled luminously.
The smile faded as he saw that Wehling had just drawn a revolver.
Wehling shot Dr. Hitz dead. "There's room for one—a great big one," he said.
And then he shot Leora Duncan. "It's only death," he said to her as she fell. "There! Room for two."
And then he shot himself, making room for all three of his children.
Nobody came running. Nobody, seemingly, heard the shots.
The painter sat on the top of his stepladder, looking down reflectively on the sorry scene.
The painter pondered the mournful puzzle of life demanding to be born and, once born, demanding to be fruitful ... to multiply and to live as long as possible—to do all that on a very small planet that would have to last forever.
All the answers that the painter could think of were grim. Even grimmer, surely, than a Catbox, a Happy Hooligan, an Easy Go. He thought of war. He thought of plague. He thought of starvation.
He knew that he would never paint again. He let his paintbrush fall to the drop-cloths below. And then he decided he had had about enough of life in the Happy Garden of Life, too, and he came slowly down from the ladder.
He took Wehling's pistol, really intending to shoot himself.
But he didn't have the nerve.
And then he saw the telephone booth in the corner of the room. He went to it, dialed the well-remembered number: "2 B R 0 2 B."
"Federal Bureau of Termination," said the very warm voice of a hostess.
"How soon could I get an appointment?" he asked, speaking very carefully.
"We could probably fit you in late this afternoon, sir," she said. "It might even be earlier, if we get a cancellation."
"All right," said the painter, "fit me in, if you please." And he gave her his name, spelling it out.
"Thank you, sir," said the hostess. "Your city thanks you; your country thanks you; your planet thanks you. But the deepest thanks of all is from future generations."
THE END
The Fall of the House of Usher
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 ebony 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 man 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 sat 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.”