Chapter 2 The Fall of the House of Usher

One dreary, gloomy, still day in that autumn, when clouds hung low over the earth, I rode alone through a most desolate and desolate country.The shadow of dusk gradually approached, and finally found that the gloomy House of Usher was in front of him.I don't know why—when I saw this mansion, an unbearable gloom came to my heart.I say unbearable, because even the most isolated and dangerous natural environment often makes people feel poetic and emotional, which breeds a little joy, but now it can't get rid of the melancholy at all.I stared at the scenery in front of me, feeling lost - the towering mansion, the natural landscape in the courtyard, the bare walls, the windows like empty eyes, the dense calamus, the white branches among the withered trees - Except for the emptiness of addicts after midnight dreams, the bitterness of sinking into ordinary life, and the fear of suddenly falling veils, I can't compare the melancholy in my heart with earthly emotions.My heart was icy cold, sinking, and churning, with an inescapable sadness that no imaginable stimulus could distort into a sublime feeling.What reason—I paused to ponder—what made me look so sadly at the House of Usher?There is no way to solve the mystery.The hazy phantoms that well up in the mind during meditation are also incomprehensible.I had to come to an unsatisfactory conclusion, namely, that there can be no doubt that the combination of very simple things in nature has a great power to infect us, but to explore this power is still beyond our ability.Possibly, I thought, a mere recombination of the features of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be effective in altering, or even canceling, the impression of forlornness.With this in mind, I galloped to the edge of the steep mountain pool.The mountain pond is right next to the house, dark and gloomy, reflecting the gray calamus, the dead white tree trunks, and the windows like blank eyes.

However, I still intend to spend a few weeks in this gloomy mansion.The owner of the mansion, Roderick Usher, was my childhood friend, but I hadn't seen him for many years.Unexpectedly, recently I received a letter from him in a distant part of the country, in which he urged me to come in person again and again.There were signs of mental disorder in that letter.The writer said that he was suffering from a sudden illness and suffered from insanity. He was eager to see me, because I was his best friend, and actually his only personal friend. He hoped that he could get along with me day and night. get well.That's what Quanxin is--it was obvious that he sincerely asked me to come, which made me unable to hesitate.Although I went to the appointment immediately, I still felt that this invitation was very unusual in my heart.

Although we were very close as children, I actually knew very little about this friend.He has always been reserved.I know that he comes from an ancient family notoriously sentimental, a trait that has long been manifested in many outstanding works of art, and more recently in a few acts of generosity that are unassuming, as well as in complex musical studies. Not the established, easily identifiable passion for musical beauty.I have also heard of a strange thing, that the long-established House of Usher has never had any surviving branch, in other words, the whole family is passed down in one line, except for trivial and fleeting changes, Always.It occurred to me that the character of the house was in keeping with the character of the Ushers, and that the character of the house might have affected the character of the family over the centuries, and I could not help thinking that this was the evil of a single line—because of this lack of support. However, due to the defects of family relationship, the property and surname are always inherited from father to son, and finally merged into one. "Mansion" refers to both the house and the family.

I have already mentioned the effect of my rather childish experiment, overlooking the mountain pond, which intensified the previous strange impression.No doubt aware of my growing superstition - why not admit it? — will only increase the degree of superstition.I have known this paradoxical law for a long time: the more you are afraid, the more you think about it, and the more you think about it, the more you are afraid.It may be for this reason that, as I looked away from the pond again, and gazed at the house itself, a curious vision arose in my mind--a vision so preposterous that I need only mention the vivid feeling which tormented me. up.I was thinking wildly, and really thought that the whole mansion and everything around it were shrouded in a kind of breath-this kind of breath had nothing to do with the air in the sky, and it was steamed from the withered bushes, the gray walls, and the silent pond. What emerged: a deadly mystical mist, somber and stagnant, faintly identifiable, as green as lead.

In order to get rid of the dreamy thoughts in my mind, I observed the real appearance of this huge house more carefully.It seems that the basic feature is antique.The color has peeled off considerably due to age.Tiny mildew spots covered the exterior walls, hanging from the eaves like tangled cobwebs.Everything here is not particularly dilapidated, and the stone walls have not collapsed; the intact layout and individual smashed stones are extremely inconsistent.This reminds me of the old wood carvings abandoned in the cellar. Because they have not been exposed to the outside wind for many years, they seem to be intact, but they have already decayed.Except for the decayed appearance, the whole house shows no signs of crumbling.Only a sharp-eyed observer can find a crack that is not clear, from the front roof, all the way to the root of the wall, and disappears in the gloomy pool.

Mindful of all this, I galloped up the short causeway to the door.The waiting servants led the horse, and I stepped through the arches of the Gothic hall.A valet on tiptoe led me silently through dark and intricate corridors to his master's workshop.For some reason, everything I encountered on the road aggravated the vague feelings I have already mentioned.Every step I take, everything around me—whether it's the carvings on the ceiling, the dull wainscots on the walls, the black floor of ebony, the phantom armor-like trophies—all rattle, all of which I have seen since I was a child. Familiar, but it still makes people feel strange, why ordinary objects can evoke such strange illusions.On a staircase, I met the doctor of this family.I thought there was some perplexity in his cunning expression.He greeted me in a panic and left.At this moment the footman opened the door, and led me to his master.

I found myself in a very tall room.The windows were long, narrow, and high-pointed, so high above the dark oak floor that they could not be reached from inside.A dim red light came in from the window lattice, just illuminating the more conspicuous things around.However, the far corners of the room or the algae wells with fretted patterns cannot be seen even with the best of the eyes.Dim curtains hung on the walls.All the furniture is big and useless, old and dilapidated, not comfortable.Books and musical instruments scattered about did not enliven the scene.I felt that I breathed a melancholy breath, a gloomy and hopeless atmosphere floating around and permeating everything.

Usher, lying straight on the sofa, jumped up when he saw me come in, and welcomed me enthusiastically.At first I thought it was overly affectionate—the forced affectation of a misanthrope.But at a glance, his expression convinced me of his sincerity.We sat down, and for a while, he didn't say a word, and I stared at him blankly, with pity and awe in my heart.No one has changed so much in such a short time as Roderick Usher!It was with difficulty that I managed to convince myself that this man was my early companion.Yet his facial features were still distinct: a dead face, a pair of incomparable watery eyes, large and bright, some thin lips without blood, but the contours were exquisitely beautiful, the nose was elegant Hebrew, but the nostrils Big but disproportionate, with a straight but not protruding jaw, a look of weak personality, and a head of soft and slender hair that is like a spider's silk.Such facial features, coupled with the unusually wide heaven, constituted an unforgettable appearance.A small change in the salient features of the facial features and the ordinary expression will produce many changes. Now under the great changes, I almost doubt who I am talking to.The ghostly pale skin and unusually bright eyes in front of me have already shocked and even horrified me.That head of soft silky hair has also been grown long indifferently, and the hair thinner than gossamer is not so much draped as it is floating on the face. Even if I try my best, I can't connect this weird look with a normal person .

Immediately I noticed that my friend was incoherent and behaving badly.It was not long before it was seen that he was struggling in vain to control his habitual spasms and nervous turmoil.I had already prepared for this. Firstly, I had read his letters, secondly, I had not forgotten his childhood, and thirdly, I had drawn some conclusions based on his special constitution and temperament.His demeanor alternates between lively and serious.His voice alternated hesitantly and quiveringly (when the life seemed to be gone) and firmly—that rough, heavy, unhurried hollow tone—that dull, calm, well-adjusted unpleasant Words, only the drunken drunkard, or the hopeless drug addict, at the height of their pleasure.

It was in this way that he spoke of the purpose of my visit, of his eagerness to see me, of the comfort he expected from me.He talked about his illness in great detail, saying that he was born with a family hereditary disease, and that he could no longer expect to find a cure for it-but he immediately added that it was just a neurosis, and it would pass quickly.This can be seen in many abnormal moods.He talked in detail, probably because his words and attitudes added weight to these things when he narrated, which made me both interested and confused.Nervousness afflicted him: he could only eat bland meals; he could only wear clothes of certain materials; all the scents of flowers made him breathless; any light would hurt his eyes; unless it was a special string The sound, so that he would not make his heart jump when he heard it.

I found him the slave of an extraordinary fear. "I'm going to die," he said, "I'm going to die of this miserable madness. That's it, that's it, there's no choice, I'm going to die. I'm afraid of the future, not of things, I am afraid of the consequences of such things. The thought of any accident, even if it is trivial, makes me shudder and lose my soul. To tell the truth, I am not afraid of danger, but its absolute consequences-horror. To this kind of insanity Sadly, I feel that sooner or later I will throw away my reason and my life, and have a battle with that hideous ghost-fear." From time to time, in his intermittent and ambiguous hints, I could sometimes detect another strange feature of his state of mind, that he was bound by certain superstitions of the great house which he had inherited, so that for many years he dared not try his best. Half a step away—the influence of this superstitious force is ambiguous and indescribable—he said that the appearance and substance of his huge house infected his spirit, specifically, the image of the gray gables and tall buildings. And their reflections in the deep mountain pool have affected his belief in survival. In spite of his hesitation, he admitted that there was another legitimate reason for the unusually melancholy mood that tormented him—his beloved sister, who had been dying of serious illness for many years.She was his only companion for many years, the only last relative in the world. "After she died," he said, with haunting poignancy, "he (the hopeless weak-willed fellow) was left to be the last of the House of Usher." He was saying, Mademoiselle Madeleine (as she was called) came slowly from the back of the room, not paying any attention to my presence, and disappeared again.I was extremely surprised, but also inevitably stared at her with some fear, and I couldn't tell what kind of emotion I was feeling in my heart.I watched her leaving gait, and couldn't help being in a trance for a while.When the door closed behind her, I hurried back to look at her brother.He covered his cheeks with both hands early in the morning, his bony fingers were actually paler than before, and tears rolled between his fingers. Miss Madeleine's illness has long left the doctor helpless.Her symptoms were abnormal, her expression was apathetic, and her body was getting thinner and thinner, accompanied by intermittent partial stiffness.She is still struggling with the illness and has never been bedridden.But on the very night I arrived at her house (as her brother told me relentlessly), she finally died under the ravages of the Destroyer.It was only then that I realized that the glimpse just now had turned into a sudden and eternal death—that lady, no one will ever see her alive. For the next few days neither Usher nor I spoke of her name.During this time, I was busy trying to alleviate my friend's distress.We draw and read together, or listen to him strumming his guitar and playing chaotic improvisations as if in a dream.The closer we became, the more he opened up to me without reservation, and the more it made me poignant to see the futility of all attempts to impress him.The sorrow in his heart was natural and endless, pouring out like darkness on everything in the material and spiritual world. I will always remember the many solemn moments spent with the master of the House of Usher.But I cannot tell what research he involved me in, or what he took me to do.The extreme abnormality of that excitement cast a brimstone gloom over everything, and his long extemporaneous dirge still rings in my ears.Among the thousands of memories, I especially remember his strange distortion of the unrestrained breath of Weber's last waltz.His delicate imagination hatched and outlined a chaos, of which I knew nothing, and it was impossible to express these pictures in words (lifelike, still in front of my eyes).If ever a mortal could draw an idea, it was Roderick Usher.For me, who was there at the time, watching this hypochondriac express pure abstraction on the canvas, I felt an annoying sense of dread in my heart. There has never been a specific painting. One of my friend's hallucinatory paintings is a less abstract one that might, if somewhat reluctantly, be expressed in words.The picture presents the interior of a long and narrow rectangular tomb or tunnel, with low, smooth, white walls, without interruption or decoration.Some details on the screen show that the cave is buried deep in the ground.There is neither any exit nor any artificial light source such as torches in the frame of the picture; only the dense light is rolling in, bathing everything in a ghostly and inappropriate brilliance. I have already mentioned that his auditory nerves are not perfect, and all music except certain strings is a torture to him.Perhaps it was this narrow limitation that limited him to the guitar, which he played wonderfully.But this does not mean that he can play impromptu very skillfully.It was only during moments of forced laughter that I observed that both the words and the music of his rhapsody (he often played and sang by himself) were the result of his high concentration and composure.I often remember the words of one of the rhapsodys.Perhaps it was because when he sang, I was extremely impressed. From the implicit and mysterious meaning of the lyrics, I saw for the first time that Usher fully understood that his noble crown of reason was crumbling.Although the poem called "Ghost Palace" cannot be said to be verbatim, it can be roughly transcribed as follows: I deeply remember that the lingering aftertaste of this ballad makes our imagination run wild, and I don't claim to follow Usher's thought from its novelty (as others will) but from Usher's obsession with it.This view of others is usually called sentient beings, but in Usher's deranged mind, it was more exaggerated, and in some cases even regarded the inorganic world as sentient beings.He was addicted to it, unable to extricate himself, and I couldn't say anything about it.But the belief (as I hinted earlier) had something to do with this gray stone house left by his ancestors.When he thought about it, the stones in their house, the mold all over the stones, the dead trees around them—especially the consistent, long-lasting arrangement and the reflection in the stagnant water of the mountain pool all had a feeling—he Said that this can be seen in the decay of the pool water and the gable wall.That invisible, inescapable calm influence had sealed the fate of his family for hundreds of years and made him what he was now-such a person.There is no need to say much about such views, and I will not make unreasonable comments. It is not difficult to imagine that the books we read that are in harmony with his fantasy have had a great influence on the formation of his spiritual world over the years.Together we read Glaser's The Convent's Parrot; Machiavelli's; Swedenborg's Heaven and Hell; Holberg's Nicholas Klimt's Underground Travels; The palmistry of Ladd, Jean Dan Guine, de la Chamber and others; Tick's "Travel in the Blue Falls"; Campanella's "City of the Sun".A favorite volume is the small octavo "Guide to the Inquisition" by Emeric de Grönes, the black-robed priest; see Pangonis Meller discussing the fauns and satyrs of ancient Africa Usher would sit and meditate for hours at a time.But one of his greatest treasures was a strange solitary volume in boldface, quarto—an obscure church handbook—called "Remembrance of the Eve of His Death According to the Choral Book of the Church of Maine" ". That evening, when he suddenly informed me that Mademoiselle Madeleine was no longer there, and that he intended (before the burial) to choose one of the numerous cellars of the main building to rest for fourteen days, I could not help thinking of the feverish ritual in that book. , and the effect it might have on this hypochondriac.There was a secular reason for such a peculiar funeral, and it is not in my power to object to it.He told me that he made this decision in consideration of his sister's strange illness, the doctor's rash but attentive inquiries, and the remoteness and lack of cover of the family cemetery.I will not deny that, when I think of the sinister face of the man I met that day at the bottom of the stairs at the House of Usher, I feel that as long as there is no harm to the general, and it is not contrary to common sense, I will not object. At Usher's request, I personally helped him with his temporary burial.The body had been put into the coffin, and the two of us carried it to the coffin alone.The cellar in which the coffins were kept (closed so long that the fire was nearly extinguished by the suffocating air that we could not observe them) was narrow, dank, buried deep in the ground, impervious to light, in my bedroom under.In the distant feudal era, this cellar was used as a prison cell for some evil purpose, and now some flammable items such as gunpowder are piled up.The floor and the walls of the corridor were carefully covered with copper skin.The heavy iron gate was similarly protected.It was so heavy that the noose made an unnaturally harsh creaking sound when the door was opened. With this heartbreaking burden resting on the trestles of the realm of terror, we partly part the still-crucified lid, and behold the remains.My heart was seized, and for the first time I found that the two brothers and sisters were surprisingly similar in appearance; Usher probably read my mind and muttered a few words, and then I realized that he and the deceased were twin brothers and sisters , there is an inexplicable resonance between them.But we didn't dare to look at it much—no one thought she wasn't scary.The disease ruined this young woman in prime of life, leaving only a few faint blushes on her chest and cheeks, which are usually the characteristics of pure catalepsy, and a few faint smiles on her lips, which are the same on the face of a dead person. so horrible.We lowered and crucified the coffin lid, closed the iron door, and groped our way upstairs to the still gloomy room upstairs. After a few days of such grief, there was a noticeable change in the character of my friend's insanity.The usual habits are gone, and everyday pastimes are disregarded and forgotten.He wandered from room to room in a hurry, aimlessly, and with scattered steps.His pallor was, if possible, overshadowed by a pallor—but the light in his eyes was gone.The hoarse voice that could be heard occasionally in the past disappeared. He seemed to be extremely frightened, and he was always talking tremblingly.To tell the truth, several times I have noticed that he is burdened with a heavy secret in his chaotic heart, and he needs to muster up courage before he can express it quickly.Sometimes, I have to attribute all this to inexplicable madness, because I saw him staring at the sky for a long time, engrossed, as if listening to some unreal voice.No wonder his condition terrified me—affected me.I felt that the strong appeal of his fantastic and touching superstitions was creeping into my heart. The power of this emotion was especially felt when I lay in bed late one night, after the body of Mademoiselle Madeleine lay in the cellar for seven or eight days.Hour by hour passed, but I tossed and turned, unable to sleep.I tried to get rid of the lingering nervousness, and tried to convince myself that most, if not all, of what I felt was due to the spooky furnishings of the room—because of the shabby, dingy wall covering, which was about to be The breath of the storm was blowing, wafting to and fro on the walls, rubbing uneasily against the bed upholstery, with a disconcerting effect.My efforts were in vain.An inexplicable fear seeped into my body, pressing down on my heart like a nightmare.I panted and struggled for a while to get rid of it. I lifted my head from the pillow and stared at the dark room—for some reason, maybe out of instinct—when I heard the gust of wind pause, I don’t know where there was a low voice. Indistinct sound.I was overwhelmed by this indescribable and unbearable fear, hurriedly put on my clothes (I don't expect to sleep at night anymore), and walked quickly back and forth in the room, trying to save myself from this kind of fear. out of a sad situation. I had hardly made a few rounds in this way, when I heard soft steps on the stairs near by, which I recognized at once to be Usher.In an instant, I heard him knock on my door, and walked in with a lamp.His face was as pale as ever—but there was an ecstasy in his eyes, and a subdued hysteria in his whole demeanor.That look terrified me—but nothing beats the loneliness I've endured for so long, and I'm relieved to welcome him. "Didn't you see it?" Looking around in silence for a while, he said suddenly: "Didn't you see it?—oh, wait a minute, you will," he said, covering him carefully. He hurried to a window, and pushed it open against the storm. Suddenly a gust of wind blew by, almost blowing us into the sky.In truth, it was a beautiful stormy night, with a singular horror and beauty.The whirlwind was already in full swing around us; the wind changed violently from time to time; thick clouds (which hung low on the towers of our houses) came from everywhere, huddled together, and did not disperse.Although the clouds are thick, we can't see the stars, the moon, and the lighting of lightning, but it never prevents us from seeing it clearly.There is a kind of dense breath, lingering and covering the huge house, it is shimmering and clearly discernible, flickering on all the ground objects around us, flickering under the billowing mist. "You mustn't look—you mustn't look!" I said to Usher, trembling a little, and gently drew him away from the window, and ushered him into the seat. "The spectacle that makes you suspicious is nothing but a common electric phenomenon--or perhaps a poisonous miasma evaporating from the mountain pond. Let us close the windows; the night air is so cold that it is not good for your health. It is I'll read your favorite saga, and you'll hear it—so let's pass this dreadful night!" The scroll I picked up at random was Sir Launcelot Canning's Mad Trieste; I called it Usher's beloved reading more irony than truth; This work did not excite my friend's sublime imagination or any interest at all.I indulged in such a vague desire that the absurdity of my reading would relieve the excitement that tormented this hypochondriac (for the history of insanity is full of similar cases).To be honest, if I could tell from his nervous and excited frenzy that he was really listening to the story, I should have congratulated myself on the sale of my brilliant idea. I have already read the famous episode in which the main character, Otheled, tries to enter the hermit's dwelling peacefully but fails, and finally has to use force to break in.Remember the story goes like this: "Othelide is a man with a heart as hard as stone. He drank the wine just now, and now he is drunk, and he is more angry than bullfighting. He doesn't want to quarrel with this stubborn and vicious hermit. He feels the rain on his shoulders and is afraid of the rainstorm. It came, so I raised my mace, smashed it hard a few times, punched the door out, reached into the armored arm, pulled it hard, and smashed it through, torn, torn, and the hollow of the dry wood The sound is terrifying, resounding through the forest." Immediately after this sentence was finished, I paused for a moment, for I was in a trance (though I immediately thought that my excited hallucinations had deceived me)-heard from some corner of this building far away, Sir Launcelot described in detail. The crackling and cracking echoes of the past came to my ears with the same characteristics.Doubtless it was mere coincidence that called my attention; amidst the creaking window-frames and howling wind, this sound did not interest me or disturb me.So I read on: "The hero Othelred came in and saw that he was shocked and angry. There was no trace of the evil hermit, but he saw a poisonous dragon, huge in size, covered in scales and armor, and spouting flames, guarding in front of a golden temple. The silver floor in the temple, A bronze shield hung on the wall, very shiny, with an inscription on it saying—— "He who comes is king; "Slaying a dragon gets a shield. "Therefore, Othelide raised his mace and threw it at the head of the poisonous dragon. The dragon's head fell in front of him, and the poisonous gas sprayed out. There was only a scream, which was piercing like a thousand arrows piercing the heart. Ryder had to cover his ears with both hands to resist the unprecedented horror." I stopped there immediately, perplexed, and there was no doubt that I did hear (though I couldn't say where) this time a low, distant, piercing and persistent squeal or grinding sound—and I imagined that the dragon screaming described by the legendary writer was exactly the same. Another unusual coincidence, my heart was suddenly overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, the most prominent of which were doubt and extreme fear.I still tried to control myself so as not to irritate my nervous companion.I have no way of knowing whether he, too, has noticed the sound, though his demeanor has changed strangely in the last few minutes.He moved the chair away from me, turned his back, and faced the door.Although I couldn't see all of his facial features, I still saw his lips trembling, as if he was whispering something silently.His head was drooping on his chest—but I knew he wasn't asleep, and from his profile I caught a glimpse of his eyes wide open.His body was rocking ever so slightly back and forth—that wasn't quite right.After a quick glance at him, I resumed Sir Launcelot's narrative, which goes as follows: "Now that the hero has escaped from the clutches of the poisonous dragon, he suddenly remembered the shield and how to break the spell on the shield. So he moved away the corpse in front of him, bravely, and stepped on the silver passage in the castle to the wall where the shield was hung; In front of his eyes, the shield fell on the silver ground in front of his feet, making a loud noise that echoed endlessly." I had barely finished uttering the syllable—as if, at that instant, a bronze shield fell heavily on the silver ground—I heard the clear, hollow, metallic clang and apparently muffled echo, Dazed with fright, he sprang to his feet; but Usher remained undisturbed, shaking his body methodically.I rushed to the chair he was sitting on.His eyes stared straight ahead, his expression indifferent, like a stone sculpture.But when I put my hands on his shoulders, his whole body trembled, and a miserable smile hung on the corner of his mouth; I saw him stammering and chanting words, his voice was urgent and low, as if I was not in front of him.Bending close to him, I finally grasped the terrible meaning of those words. "Didn't you hear?--I did, I did, minutes, days ago--but I dared not--Oh, have mercy on me, poor wretch!--I Don't—I dare not! We buried her alive! Didn't I say I was sensitive? I'll tell you now I heard her first wriggles in the coffin. I heard them, so much, so much Days ago—but I dare not—I dare not say! Now—tonight—Othelred—ha! Ha! broke the hermit's door, the dragon screamed, and the shield clattered to the ground—still Rather the crack of her coffin, the creaking of her prison hinges, the echo of her struggles in the copper vaults of the cellar! Hi! Where can I lie? Will she be here soon? She's not tight Come here to tell me about my haste? Didn't I hear her steps up the stairs? Didn't I hear her terrible heavy beating? Madman!" He jumped up in a desperate rage, and cried out: " Madman! I tell you she's standing outside the door right now." As if there was a spell-like magic power in his extraordinary words, the quaint and huge inlaid door he pointed to suddenly and slowly split open the heavy ebony mouth.It was the work of a strong wind—unexpectedly, the tall Miss Madeleine in the shroud of the Usher House was standing at the door.She was covered in cuts and bruises, skinny, her white robe was stained with blood, and there were signs of struggling everywhere.For a moment she just shivered and swayed—then, with a low whimper, she fell hard on top of her brother, and now was her last death-strike.He was dragged to the ground, a corpse, a victim of terror, which he had expected. Escaping from that room, escaping from that huge house, I was out of my wits.The wind was still blowing as I crossed the old embankment.Suddenly, a strange light came from the road, and I turned my head to see where the strange light came from, because the huge buildings and shadows of the houses had long been left behind by me.It turned out to be a blood-red full moon sinking in the west, shining through the crack I mentioned earlier.The crack that was barely visible before, from the zigzag of the roof to the corner of the wall, suddenly widened when I stared at it—the whirlwind whizzed, and the whole building collapsed before my eyes. Seeing the high wall crumble, I felt I couldn't help being dizzy, but I heard a loud noise like an overturning river, which lasted for a long time - the cold and deep mountain pool under my feet swallowed up the rubble of the House of Usher silently and gloomyly.