Chapter 13 The Fall of the House of Usher

The Fall of the House of Usher (1) His heart is a hanging harp; ——Belangrui That autumn, on a gloomy, dim, and silent day, the dark clouds hung low and covered the earth heavily. All that day I rode alone through a most bleak part of the country.At dusk, the melancholy House of Usher is finally in sight.I can't explain why, but the sight of the building filled my soul with unbearable sadness.I say it is unbearable, because even in the past, even in a barren place or in a terrible situation, when encountering the extremely harsh natural scene, it is inevitable that there will be a bit of poetry, and even a bit of joy; Always lingering.I looked at the scene in front of me sadly.I looked at the lonely mansion and the monotonous landscape in the manor, at the desolate walls, the windows like empty eyes, three or five reeds with bad smell, and a few dead trees with white flowers—I felt extremely sad , So sad that the emotions of the world can no longer be compared, and it is only appropriate to compare it with the feeling of an addict after dreaming back-the pain has become daily, and the ugly veil has been removed.My heart was churning and sinking coldly, so desolate that there is no redemption, no matter how exciting the imagination is, it is hard to say that this is the sublimation of the soul.What happened?I thought about it.

What is the reason that makes me so uncontrollable when I look at Ursher House?It is an insoluble mystery.While meditating, vague fantasies flooded my heart, but they were elusive.I had no choice but to settle for the next best thing and justify myself—simple natural scenes together do have the power to affect people's emotions, but to analyze this appeal, even if you try your best, you can't find it. I thought about it, as long as every plant, tree, mountain and river in this scene are arranged slightly differently, the feeling of sadness brought to people may be alleviated or eliminated.With this thought, I galloped to the dangerous shore of the small lake in the mountain.The small lake is next to the house, the lake is shiny, but there is no ripple, black and gloomy, reflecting deformed gray reeds, pale tree trunks, and windows like hollow eyes.I looked down at the lake, trembling all over, even weirder than before.

For the present, however, I intend to stay a few weeks in this gloomy mansion.Roderick, the owner of this mansion. Ursher was my childhood friend.We haven't seen each other for many years.Recently, however, I received a letter from a remote part of the country--from him, so urgent that I was compelled to go there myself.In his personal letter, there is obviously a taste of nervousness.He mentioned that he was suffering from a serious illness - the insanity that was tormenting him, and said that he really wanted to see my best friend and only confidant, and be able to spend a while with me happily, The condition will be relieved.Quanxin has said so much.His request was obviously sincere, and one could not hesitate for a moment.So, I was immediately invited to leave.It has come, but I still think that his call is really strange.

Although we were close friends in childhood, I really don't know much about this friend.He always has reservations, it has become his habit.But it is clear to me that, long ago, his ancestors were famously sentimental.Over the years, this has always been manifested in noble works of art; more recently, in one generous but unassuming philanthropy, a fascination with the complexity of music, rather than a love for its unanimous, instant success. understand the beauty.I am also aware of the extraordinary fact that the Usher family, though respected throughout history, has never had a permanent collateral descendant; It will always be like this.Considering that the character of the house fits so well with the generally accepted character of the Ushers, and how the character of the house might have influenced the character of the Ushers over the centuries, I cannot help but think that perhaps it is the lack of collateral Proper relatives lead to property and surnames being passed down from generation to generation, and finally the property and surname are mixed together, the name of the manor gradually disappears, and a bizarre and ambiguous name-"Usher Mansion" emerges. the surface.Farmers all use this name, and in their hearts, this name seems to include both the family and the mansion.

As I said above, this slightly childish gesture of looking down on the lake only intensified the strange melancholy of earlier days.Undoubtedly, this rapidly spreading sense of superstition—why not just call it superstition? — will only get stronger.I have known for a long time that the only way to feel horror is to think wildly in my mind.This is a ridiculous law.Perhaps it was for this reason that when I stopped looking at the reflections in the water and raised my eyes to look at the mansion again, a strange vision arose in my heart.That vision was so absurd, indeed, that I mention it to illustrate the power of tormenting thoughts.I was thinking so wildly that I really believed that the whole mansion and the whole manor were permeated with an aura, and the surrounding area was also contaminated with this aura.This breath is completely different from the atmosphere in the sky. It floats from dead wood, gray walls, and stagnant water. It is gloomy, sluggish, and dusty, indistinct and inconceivable like a plague.

I shook off those thoughts that could only be called dreams in my mind, and looked more carefully at the real appearance of this mansion.It seems that its main feature is that it is extremely ancient, and the traces of time have faded its bright colors.Microscopic fungus covered the walls and hung tangled like cobwebs from the eaves.However, I couldn't find a particularly badly damaged place.No wall ever comes down.The parts fit together perfectly and neatly, but individual stones were broken and looked very incongruous.This reminds me of the old woodwork in the cellar that no one cares about. For many years, they have not been blown by a ray of wind outside, and they seem to be intact, but they have rotted for many years.However, apart from the superficial decay of the Usher Mansion, the whole building did not seem to be crumbling at all.If you look carefully, you may find a tiny crack. It starts from the front roof and goes down the wall in a winding way until it disappears into the gloomy lake water.

Watching all this, I rode up a short causeway to the gate of the house.A page took the reins from the horse.I stepped through the Gothic hall arches.A footman on tiptoe led me silently through dark and winding corridors to the master's studio.For some reason, the sights I saw along the way aggravated the vague melancholy I mentioned above.Everything around—the carvings on the ceiling, the black hangings on the walls, the sooty floor, the phantom clattering of heraldic armor—I was used to seeing it as a child.I admit without hesitation that everything is familiar, but I am still amazed how these ordinary objects can arouse such strange fantasies!On a staircase, I met his family doctor.He had a treacherous and confused look on his face, he said something to me tremblingly, and then slipped away.At this moment the footman opened the door suddenly, and led me to his master.

I found that the room was very high and very large, with narrow and pointed windows, so high above the dark oak floor that I couldn't reach them with my hands.A few faint rays of red light came in through the latticed glass, illuminating the more conspicuous objects in the surroundings clearly.However, the far corners of the room, the hollows of the carved vaults, were not illuminated in any way.Dark draperies hung on the walls.The furniture is plentiful, but almost all of it is uncomfortable and outdated.Books and musical instruments are strewn about, but do not add life to the room.All I smell is sadness.Everything around me was suffused with a gloomy, deep, hopeless melancholy.

Ursher was lying upright on the sofa. When he saw me go in, he immediately got up and greeted me warmly and cheerfully.At first I thought this enthusiasm was overdone, just the affectation of this misanthrope, but a glance at his face convinced me that it was sincere.We sat down and for a while he didn't say a word.I looked at him with half pity, half awe.I believe there is no one like Roderick.Usher has become so powerful in such a short time.It took me a long time to decide that the man in front of me was my childhood friend.But his facial features have always been unusual.His face was ashen ashes; his eyes were large, clear, and incomparably bright; his lips were a little thin, dull in colour, but exceedingly handsome in outline; his nose was of a delicate Hebrew pattern, but the nostrils were absurdly large; his chin was well formed, but of little vitality , not eye-catching; the hair is soft and thin, sparse like a spider's web; such facial features, coupled with the unusually wide heaven above the temple, that appearance is really unforgettable.

The distinctive features on the face, the consistent expression on the face, as long as there is a little exaggeration, it will appear to change a lot. Now that I am in the same room with Ursher, I have the feeling that we are not acquainted.The terrible pallor of the complexion before me, the strangely bright eyes, especially surprised me, they even frightened me.The silk-like silky hair also unknowingly grew longer, and it was as messy as a spider's silk.No matter how hard I try, I can't find the shadow of a normal person from this weird expression. From the very beginning, I felt that my friend's actions were neither coherent nor coordinated.I soon discovered that his nerves were extremely tense—he had a habitual spasm, which he tried to overcome with feeble, useless effort.In fact, I have long been mentally prepared for this characteristic of him: first, because I read his letter; second, I still remember some of his temperament in his youth; , can also be inferred.He was high-spirited and depressed by turns; his voice, wavering and quivering (and now sounding lifeless) one moment, became crisp and forceful the next.The blunt, sluggish, empty, unhurried enunciation, the dull, calm, and free pronunciation can only be heard from the mouth of a drunk or a hopeless smoker.This is how they talk after being strongly stimulated by tobacco and alcohol.

He just talked about the purpose of inviting me, how he sincerely looked forward to me, and hoped that I would give him comfort.He also described at some length what ailment he thought he had.He said that this is a congenital disease that is inherited in the family, and he is desperate and does not want to be treated anymore.He added at once that it was only a nervous disorder, which would pass soon.Symptoms of this disease can be seen in his many abnormal emotions.He told me everything.Weighty though his diction and delivery may be, there were some things that both interested and puzzled me.Nervousness tormented him badly. I can only eat bland meals; I can only wear clothes made of a certain texture; the fragrance of all flowers is unbearable; even a faint light will sting my eyes; only a special sound-string music , so as not to frighten him. It could be seen that unnatural fear had taken hold of him. "I'm going to die," he said, "of this pathetic folly I must die. Yes, that's the way to die, there's no other choice. I'm afraid of what's going to happen, not the thing itself, but the result." The thought of what might happen, even the slightest, makes me uneasy, unbearable, and inevitably trembling. I really don't hate danger, except for the sheer impact of being exposed to it. —in terror. In this state of mental uneasiness—in this wretched state, I felt that sooner or later the time would come when I would lose my life and my sanity in a kapa hallucination of fear. " Besides, from time to time, I learned from his intermittent and ambiguous hints another peculiarity of his mind.He couldn't shake his superstitious view of a house he hadn't left in years.He said that the appearance and physical character of his house had had an effect on his mind as a result of long-suffering.He cannot escape this influence.The appearance of the gray walls and towers, and the dark lake reflecting them, affected his state of mind.In imagining the appeal of this influence, he uses words so vague that it is difficult for me to repeat them. At last, though hesitating, he admitted that, in retrospect, the strange melancholy which had so tormented him might have arisen from a more natural and obvious cause, namely, that his beloved sister had been seriously ill--in fact, she was now dying.For many years, his younger sister was his only companion, the only last relative he had in this world. "When she dies," he said, in a voice I will never forget, "there's nothing left of the Usher family but a hopeless frailty." As he spoke, Miss Madeleine (the others (I called her that way) walked across the room from a distance, walking slowly, she didn't pay attention to me at all, and disappeared in a blink of an eye.When I saw her, I was shocked, mingled with fear.I found it impossible to explain why.My eyes followed her away footsteps, and my mind was in a trance for a moment.When the door finally closed behind her, instinctively, I turned my eyes eagerly to see her brother's expression, but he had already covered his face with his hands, and all I could see were the bony fingers, paler than usual, between the fingers , Tears rolled down. Miss Madeleine's illness had already exhausted her doctors.She has all kinds of abnormal symptoms: deep-rooted apathy, body thinning day by day, short but frequent episodes of epilepsy-like partial body rigidity.But she has been fighting against the disease, and did not lie on the bed.But on the evening when I arrived at their house, she bowed her head to the devastating power of death. The sad news was told to me by her brother at night, and his distress was indescribable.Only then did I know that that trance-like glimpse turned into an eternal secret.I will never see Madeleine Madeleine alive again. For the next few days neither Usher nor I mentioned her name.During that time, I was full of enthusiasm and tried to find ways to alleviate my friend's sorrow.We paint together, read books together, or I listen to him improvising to play the banjo, as if in a dream.So we became closer and closer.The closer I got, the more I learned about his inner world, and the more painfully I realized that all my efforts to please him were in vain.The sadness in his heart seemed to be innate, and it spread out endlessly, covering Daewoo, and the entire spiritual world and material world were gloomy. I have passed many solemn moments of solitude with the master of the House of Usher.This will be a memory of my life.But if you want me to say what he let me sink into, or what he led me to study, I really can't tell the ugly Yinmao.An active and extremely disturbed mind casts a sulphur-like sheen on everything.The dirges he improvised in large sections will always be in his ears.Among other tunes, I painfully recall his appreciation of the impassioned "Von.Weird Variations and Exaggerations in Weber's Last Waltz.With his delicate fantasy, he conceived one picture after another, and he brushed it one after another, and the pictures gradually became blurred, which made me shudder all over when I saw it, and I was even more horrified because I didn't understand why I shuddered.These paintings are still vivid and vivid in my mind, but I can't describe them vividly with words.The composition of his paintings is extremely simple, his face is naked, and it is really natural to carve, which is both attractive and shocking.If there is anyone in the world whose paintings have real meaning, it can only be Roderick.Usher.For me at least—in the context of the time—seeing the sheer abstraction the melancholic managed to splatter on the canvas was overwhelmingly daunting.I was never in awe of contemplating Fuseli's intensely colored but visionary paintings. One of my friend's phantom ideas was a less abstract one, which could perhaps be put into words, though perhaps poorly interpreted.The size of this painting is not large, and it is an interior scene, either a cellar or a tunnel, extending infinitely in a rectangular shape.The snow-white walls are low and smooth, without patterns or signs of peeling.Some foils on the picture show that this cave is buried deep underground. Although it is extremely wide, there is no exit, no torches or other artificial light sources, but the strong light waves and rolls around. Bathing the whole picture in an untimely and terrifying light. As I mentioned above, his auditory nerves are sick. Except for some strings, he can't bear to hear any other music.Perhaps it was because he only played the banjo that he played it so grotesquely.But his impassioned and smooth impromptus cannot be attributed to this.I have euphemistically pointed out earlier that only in moments of artificially extreme excitement did he possess the greatest composure and concentration.The keys and words of those rhapsodys (which he played and improvised in rhyme from time to time) must have been, and were, the product of his extreme poise and concentration.I had no trouble memorizing the words to one of the rhapsodys.Maybe because he sang it, it touched my heartstrings, so I deeply remembered it.From its hidden meaning, I think I have experienced Usher's mind for the first time-he fully understands that his high reason is already crumbling and precarious.The title of the rhapsody is "The Haunted Palace", and the whole poem is roughly as follows: ⅠA green valley, dotted with the houses of lovely fairies, a magnificent palace - shining brightly, with its head lifted up to the sky. In the kingdom where ideas rule everything, palaces stand tall. The wings of seraphs have never passed such a beautiful building. Ⅱ The golden banner is brilliant and dazzing, fluttering on the top of the palace; (everything is the dust of the past, fleeing with time) At that time, the years were quiet and the breeze was blowing. The appearance of the red walls and green tiles has faded, and the faint fragrance floats away. Ⅲ Roaming in the valley of joy and looking at the two bright windows, the fairies are singing and dancing, playing the harp. They revolve around the throne, the king of thought is glorious, like sitting on a cloud, majestic and regal. Ⅳ The pearls and rubies dotted all over the palace reflect the beautiful gate of the palace. Groups of Goddesses of Echo, radiant in all directions, flew past the gate in an endless stream. Their only mission is to sing to their heart's content. The charming voice praised the king's wisdom. ⅤEvil, dressed in a long robe and wrapped in sorrow, invaded the king's supreme land; (Woohoo! Sighing the king's miserable death to the underworld) The prosperity of the royal family in the past has faded away, and it has gradually become a vague legend, passing away with the wind. Ⅵ Now the traveler steps into the valley, and through the blood-red window, he sees ghostly shadows dancing dreamily with harsh melodies. The terrifying group of demons quickly passed through the pale palace gate, like a frightening torrential river of Styx, their footsteps hurried and endless, their faces dull, and the sound of wild laughter. I clearly remember that the implied meaning of this song caused us to think a lot.After much deliberation, Usher's concept is also obvious.I mention his idea not chiefly because it was new—because others had it, but because of Usher's insistence on it.Generally speaking, this kind of concept is that all plants and trees have spirituality.However, in Usher's tumultuous whimsy, this idea is even more daring, and in some cases, he even thinks that even the things of the inorganic world have spirits. He believed in it so deeply and sincerely that my pen is limited to describe his conviction.However, as I did not hint, his belief had something to do with his ancestral gray stone house.In his imagination, the arrangement and combination of those stones, the fungus all over the stones, the dead trees standing around - especially the layout that hasn't changed for a long time, and the reflection in the dead lake water are all different. There is a spirituality.He said that the breath from the lake water and the stone wall gradually condensed in the surroundings, and traces of spirituality can be seen from it.Hearing him say that, I was taken aback.He went on to say that the result of this ubiquitous spirituality is obvious to all, and it lurks in the silent but haunting terrible influence, which has dominated the fate of his family for hundreds of years. It made him look like this now.There is no need to comment on such views, and I will not comment on them. It is not difficult to imagine that the books we read also coincide with this illusion. Over the years, such books have had a considerable impact on the mental state of patients.The books we studied carefully together were: Griese's "The Green Bird and the Monastery", Machiavelli's, Swedenborg's "Heaven and Hell", Holberg's "Nicolas".Kerim's Journey Underground, Robert. Vlad, Jean.Dandagne and de.pull.Chambre's Palmistry, Tick's Melancholy Journey, Campanella's Sun City, and more.One of our favorites is the Handbook of the Inquisition, a small octavo volume, by Aymeric the Dominican.Germany.Written by Gallagher. "Pamponis.Some passages in the Mera about the satyrs and shepherds of ancient Africa often made Usher sit dreamily for hours.But his favorite reading is a very rare black type, quarto book - a handbook of a forgotten church - "Remembrance of the Dead in the Choral Book of the Mainz Church". That In the evening, Usher informed me that Mademoiselle Madeleine had died, and that he intended to store her body in a cellar in the main house of the house for fourteen days before burial.Listening to him, I couldn't help but think of the mad rituals in that strange book, and the effect they might have had on the melancholic.However, he chose such a peculiar way, and he has his own secular reasons, which I am inconvenient to question casually.He told me that when he thought of his dead sister's unusual illness, the doctor's reckless and eager inquiries, and the remoteness of the ancestral grave, surrounded by bitter wind and rain, he made up his mind to do this.I will not deny that, thinking of the sinister look of the man I met on the stairs that day at Usher's house, I will not object to him doing this, which, in my opinion, can do no harm to anyone, and, in any case It's not even counterintuitive. At the request of Usher, I personally helped him with the temporary funeral affairs.The body has been put into a coffin, and the two of us carried it to the cellar where it was kept.The cellar had not been opened for many years, and the air was so suffocating that it nearly put out the torches.We didn't get to take a closer look.I just feel that it is narrow and damp, and there is no glimmer of light through it.It's deep underground, above where my bedroom happens to be.Obviously, in the distant feudal era, the cellar was the worst use-it existed as a death row; The walls of the long arcade outside were carefully clad with brass.The heavy iron door was also clad in brass.When opening and closing, the hinges on the heavy iron door made a particularly sharp creaking sound. We erected the mournful coffin in the dreadful cellar, removed the lid, which had not yet been nailed, and beheld the remains.For the first time, I noticed that the two siblings were strikingly similar in appearance.Usher probably saw through my thoughts and uttered a few words in a low voice. Only then did I realize that he and the deceased were twin brothers and sisters. There was an incredible commonality in their natures. The seeds are closely related.Because of the fear in our hearts, our eyes did not dare to stay too long on the dead body.Just when she was young, the disease took her life. Like all people with severe sclerosis, there is still a thin layer of blush on her chest and face, and a suspicious smile is parked on her lips. , that smile lingered on the face of the deceased, especially scary.We replaced the lid, nailed the nails, shut the iron door, and with a heavy heart we went back to the room above which was not much better than the cellar. After a few days of grief, the character of my friend's nervous disturbance changed markedly.No trace of his usual manner.Forget about the things you have to do every day.He wandered aimlessly from room to room, his steps hurried and unkempt. If the already pale face can be said to be paler, then he can be said to be pale.The light in those eyes was really completely dimmed.His occasionally hoarse voice was no longer heard.His voice became trembling, as if in extreme fright.This has become a consistent feature of his speech.Sometimes I really feel that his heart is restless because it hides oppressive secrets, and he must muster up enough strength to have the courage to pour it out; It was an unbelievable fantasy, because I witnessed him staring at the void for a long time, as if he was listening to some illusory voice. His condition frightened me and infected me.This is no surprise.I feel that the absurd and touching superstitious atmosphere in him has a strong appeal, and this power is creeping into my heart inch by inch. This was especially felt late at night on the seventh or eighth day when Mademoiselle Madeleine's body lay in the cellar of the main building.Hour after hour passed, and I was still tossing and turning.I was so nervous that I couldn't extricate myself, so I had to try my best to resolve it.I tried to convince myself that it was mostly, if not all, due to the deceptively gloomy furniture and tattered black curtains in the room.At that time, an impending storm caused the black curtain to flutter on the wall from time to time, rustling against the decorations on the bed.No matter how to solve it.The uncontrollable trembling gradually spread throughout the whole body, and finally, an inexplicable and terrifying nightmare weighed on his heart.I gasped and struggled to get rid of it.I got up and leaned on the pillow, staring carefully at the dark room, I listened carefully.I don't know why I should listen, unless it's an instinct.I listened for some low, indistinct voice that would rise up at long intervals, when the storm ceased for a moment.I don't know where it came from.A strong sense of fear was overwhelming, unexplainable, and uncomfortable.Feeling that I could sleep no more that night, I dressed hastily, and hurried up and down the room, trying to extricate myself from the wretched situation I had found myself in. I had just turned around a few times when I heard soft footsteps on a nearby staircase.My ears perked up.Soon Usher's footsteps were heard.In an instant, he knocked lightly on the door and walked in.In his hand, he held a lamp.His face was as pale as a corpse, but his eyes were full of ecstasy.There was obviously suppressed hysteria in his demeanor.I was horrified by his appearance.I can bear everything, because the loneliness of the long night is so unbearable.I even welcome him here.I took his presence as a consolation. "Didn't you see it?" He stared around silently for a moment, then said suddenly, "Didn't you see it then? Wait! you will see. "So saying, he carefully covered the lamp, walked quickly to a window, and opened it suddenly. Outside the window, it was raining and windy. A gust of wind hit us so hard it nearly knocked us over.Despite the storm, the night was absolutely beautiful, a strange mix of horror and beauty.The whirlwind is obviously exerting its power nearby, because the wind direction changes violently from time to time.The dark clouds were dense and thicker, hanging down, as if they were about to press down on the tower of the mansion.Although the dark clouds are dense, it can still be seen that the clouds are rushing rapidly and vividly, coming from all directions and colliding with each other, but they do not drift far away.I mean, the thick dark clouds didn't obscure our glasses.But we didn't see the moon or the stars, nor did we see a flash of lightning across the night sky.But Usher's mansion was shrouded in mist and was obscured.The light of the mist was faint, but clearly visible.The strange mist flickered, so that everything under the great billowing clouds, and everything on the ground around it, shone with this light. "Don't you look—you shouldn't look at this!" tremblingly I said to Usher, pulling him from the window to the seat with a little effort. "These bewitching sights are nothing more than ordinary lightning phenomena—or, perhaps, the miasma in the mountains and lakes. Close the windows, the cold air is not good for your health. Here is one of your favorite legends, I read, listen, and let us pass this dreadful night together." The ancient book I picked up is Lancelot.Sir Canning's The Crazy Gala, but I call it Usher's favorite book, not the truth, but the bittersweet talk, for, in truth, my friend is haughty , Thoughts are ethereal, and this book has vulgar language, long stories, and poor imagination, which makes it difficult to arouse his interest.However, this is the only one I have on hand, and I have a little luck in the hope that the depressed patient who is currently excited and restless will find some relief from listening to me read the ridiculous plot, because the nervous disorder In the medical history, there are many similar situations.If I could tell from the way he listened to the story with the overwrought, ecstasy of joy, whether he was actually listening or pretending to be listening, then I could congratulate myself on the success of my cunning scheme. I have already read the well-known passage, in which Ethelred, the hero of the story, tried in vain to enter the hermit's dwelling peacefully, so he forced his way in by force.I remember that this episode is written like this: Ethelred is brave and strong by nature, and after drinking a few drinks, he stopped talking to the hermit while taking advantage of the strength of the drink.The hermit was also stubborn and cruel by nature.Ethelred felt the raindrops on his shoulders. Fearing that a storm would come, he immediately picked up the mace and smashed it against the door a few times. A hole was soon smashed out of the thick door panel.He reached in with his gauntleted hand, pulled hard, and with a crack, the door was torn, then shattered.The sound of cracking dry and hollow planks echoed throughout the forest, making one panic-stricken. After reading this, I was taken aback.For a while, I stopped reading.For I fancied I heard--though at once agitated, fanciful, and delusional--I fancied I heard, from a far corner of the mansion, a vague echo, of the same crackling sound as Sir Lancelot so peculiarly described. The cracking sound is almost exactly the same, of course it is more dull and depressing.Needless to say, it was this coincidence that attracted my attention.But with the rattling of the windows and the still intensifying sound of the storm mixed with the usual cacophony, the sound was really nothing, neither interesting nor disturbing. panicked.Then I read: Aggressive Ethelred entered the door, but the hermit was nowhere to be seen, and was furious and frightened to himself.However, he saw a huge dragon with scales and armor, and a tongue of fire, guarding in front of a palace made of gold. The ground of the palace is paved with silver, and on the wall hangs a shiny brass shield engraved on it—the conqueror enters this gate, the dragon slayer wins this shield Athelred swung the mace and struck The faucet, the faucet fell to the ground with a sound, and was rolling in front of him, screaming and spewing out a stream of poisonous gas.The scream was piercing and heart-piercing, and Ethelred had to cover his ears with his hands to resist the terrible sound that had never been heard before. After reading this, I suddenly stopped again, and I was really surprised—because at this moment, there is no doubt that I did hear a voice, which was weak, piercing, and dragged on for a long time, clearly coming from a long distance, It can also be heard as an extremely unusual scream or rubbing sound——after reading the description of the legendary writer, I have already imagined the scream of a giant dragon in my mind.Now, the voice in the ear is actually exactly the same as it. Indeed, this is the second time such a coincidence happened, and all kinds of emotions collided with each other overwhelmingly, the strongest being surprise and fear.But I still maintained enough composure not to be aroused by my sensitive companion.I'm not sure he'd noticed the voices, though he'd certainly had a strange change in his demeanor over the past few minutes. He was originally sitting facing me, but he slowly turned the chair away, and now he was facing the door.Therefore, I can only see his profile.His lips trembled, as if he was muttering something silently.His head dropped to his chest.But I knew that he was not asleep, because I glanced at his side, and saw his eyes were dazed and wide open.他的身体一直轻微地左右摇摆，始终如一，这也证明他没有睡着。我迅速把一切收入眼底，重新开始读兰斯劳特爵士的那篇文章，故事进展如下：斗士避开巨龙的狂怒之后，想起了黄铜盾牌，想到要破除盾牌上所附的魔法。他把横在面前的龙尸搬开，无畏地跨过城堡的白银地面，走向挂着盾牌的墙壁。还没等他走到跟前，盾牌就掉在了他的脚边，砸得白银地板发出震天的可怕脆响。 我的嘴巴一吐出这些音节，刹那间，好似真有黄铜盾牌重重落在白银地板上，清晰、空洞、明显沉闷的金属哐啷声，顿时便回响在耳际。我惊得魂飞魄散，一跃而起，可厄榭依旧一下一下地摇来晃去。我冲到他的椅子前。他的双眼直勾勾地盯着面前那块地方，整张脸僵冷无匹。当我把手搭到他肩上时，他浑身上下猛地战栗起来，嘴唇上颤动着一丝惨淡的微笑。 只见他结结巴巴地咕哝着，声音急促而低沉，似乎没有意识到我就站在面前。我俯下身子，凑近一听，终于明白了他话里的可怕含义。 “没听到？我可听到了，早听到了。好久——好久——好久——几分钟前，几小时前，几天前我就听到了。可我不敢——哦，可怜可怜我吧，我真是个可怜的人——我不敢说。我们把她活埋啦！我不是说过我感觉敏锐么？现在我来告诉你，她最早在空荡的棺材里弄出的动静，我就听到了。我好几天前就听到了——可我不敢——我不敢说。可现在——今晚——埃塞尔雷德——哈！哈！——隐士的门破裂了，巨龙临死前凄厉地叫着，盾牌哐啷一声掉在地上！——倒不如说，是棺材的碎裂声，是地牢铁门铰链的摩擦声，是她在黄铜廊道中的挣扎声！哦，该往哪里逃呢？难道她不会马上赶来？老天，难道她不正匆匆赶来么？来责问我草率？我不是已经听到她上楼的脚步声了么？我不是已听清她沉重而可怕的心跳了？疯子！” 说着，他猛地跳起来，失魂落魄地厉声喊道：“疯子！告诉你，她现在就站的门外！” 他这声非人的锐叫似乎有种符咒的魔力，一瞬间，他指着的那扇古旧笨重的黑檀木门，竟缓缓地张开了口子。这是一阵疾风的刮开的——殊不知，门外当真站着厄榭府高个子的玛德琳小姐。她的身上裹着寿衣，那白色的袍子上，溅满血迹；瘦弱不堪的身体上到处是苦苦挣扎的痕迹。她在门槛那里颤抖了一阵，前后摇晃了一阵，然后，低低地呻吟着，重重地朝屋内的哥哥身上倒去。这死前猛烈而痛苦的一击，把她哥哥扑倒在地，成为一具死尸。他被吓死了。这倒在他的预料之中。 我心惊胆寒，逃出了那个房间，逃出了厄榭府，不觉间已踏上那条古旧的堤道。风雨依然肆虐。突然，路上射来一道奇异的光线，我回转头，想看看这道奇光究竟来自何方，因为身后除了那座府邸和它的影子，别无他物。原来是一轮血红的满月，它沉沉地悬挂西天，照得那条几乎看不见的裂缝很是惹眼。我上文中提过那条裂缝，就是那条从正面屋顶上开始、曲曲弯弯延伸到墙根的裂缝。在我举目凝望之际，裂缝迅速变宽，耳畔，旋风在怒吼着，而那血红的满月，骤然逼至眼前。在眩晕中，我看到坚固的高墙崩裂为碎片，我听到惊天动地的巨响经久不息，犹如万丈狂涛喧腾咆哮。脚下，那幽深阴冷的山湖，寂寂地淹没了砖残瓦碎的“厄榭府”。 （1839年）