“The Fall of the House of Usher” is, for me, the most perfect short story in the English language. Edgar Allan Poe, with his dedication to the idea that a work of art must exhibit unity of effect, certainly achieved that goal with “Usher,” a story that has commanded readers’ attention and critics’ respect since it was first published in 1838. And therefore it is perhaps fitting that this Penguin Books collection of Poe’s poems, stories, and nonfiction pieces bears the title The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Writings.
American Studies professor David Galloway, of Germany’s Ruhr University, helpfully frames this collection with a thoughtful and perceptive introduction. I was delighted to find that Professor Galloway agrees with me regarding the centrality to Poe’s work of “The Fall of the House of Usher” as a tale “whose richness and totality of effect entitle it to unquestioned place among the short-fiction masterpieces of all time” (p. xix). Galloway’s introduction emphasizes how “Perhaps no other single story has exerted such profound influence on other artists as Poe’s ‘Germanic’ tale” (p. xix). Viewers who thrilled to the recent Netflix miniseries The Fall of the House of Usher (2023) might be among those who would tend to agree with Professor Galloway, and with me, in that regard.
But to this collection. There is a poetry section with 17 poems, a fiction section with 19 stories, and an “Essays and Reviews” section with 16 non-fiction pieces. It is a very good balance.
The poetry section had me once again trying to recite my favourite Poe poems – “The Raven,” “The City in the Sea,” “Annabel Lee” – from memory. When I missed a word or a line, I went back for a refresher. Someday, I hope, I’ll be able simply to “declaim” these poems (that sounds like a word Poe would use).
And then it was on to the fiction. On this reading of “The Fall of the House of Usher,” I found myself focusing on some features of the story that a first-time reader might overlook – features that emphasize the care with which Poe composed this classic of American literature. I was struck, for instance, by the reason that Roderick Usher, once he has reported the death of his sister Madeline from a mysterious wasting disease, gives to the story’s narrator his reasons for “preserving [Madeline’s] corpse for a fortnight (previously to its final interment) in one of the numerous vaults within the main walls” of the Usher mansion:
The worldly reason…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 [doctor] 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 a harmless, and by no means an unnatural, precaution. (p. 102)
This detail makes sense in historical context. Works like Robert Louis Stevenson’s short story “The Body Snatcher” (1884) remind us that the early 19th century was a time when “body snatchers” or “resurrection men” might dig up buried corpses for autopsy or examination by doctors or medical students, at a time when such practices were widely regarded as a profaning of the divinely created human body. At the same time, this feature of the tale plays an important role in storytelling terms, as the presence of Madeline’s body in a vault of the House of Usher points directly toward the story’s horrifying resolution.
“The Masque of the Red Death” is another of my favourite Poe stories – and is one that seems to take on new life every time a new infectious disease appears. Back in the 1980’s, the story was associated with the HIV/AIDS epidemic – recall that Tom Wolfe’s novel The Bonfire of the Vanities (1987) had a chapter titled “The Masque of the Red Death” and chronicling the situation of an HIV-positive character. Forty years later, in the aftermath of the COVID-19 pandemic and lockdown, I found myself reading Poe’s tale through a post-COVID lens.
Recall that the Red Death is a hideous disease that produces “profuse bleeding” and “scarlet stains upon the body” of its sufferers, causing each person with the disease to be “shut…out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men” (p. 205), even before the disease causes death. The onset of any such public-health crisis, in any society, inevitably raises the question: what will that society’s leaders do?
In the case of “The Masque of the Red Death,” the Prince Prospero is “happy and dauntless and sagacious” when the Red Death strikes his kingdom. Does the prince search for a cure, institute quarantine measures, treat those who are suffering, try to prevent the spread of the illness? Heavens, no. Instead, “When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court” (p. 205); and once he has gathered his noble friends, he seals up the castle so that no one can enter or leave.
With such precautions, the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.” (p. 205)
Prince Prospero’s dereliction of duty is monstrous – leaving his people to suffer and die whilst hosting a massive party inside his castle. In this context, the story’s resolution, wherein it turns out that the prince cannot seal out an invisible enemy that comes “like a thief in the night” (p. 211), takes on a particularly strong element of poetic justice. And, perhaps inevitably, I found myself thinking back to the time of the COVID-19 pandemic, recalling when national leaders responded to the crisis in a manner that was strong and unifying (like Jacinda Ardern in New Zealand), or in ways that were weak, inconsistent, and ineffective (like Donald Trump in the U.S.A.).
There will be other epidemics and pandemics in the future – and, sadly, there will no doubt be national leaders who will respond to some future disease crisis much the way Prince Prospero does in “The Masque of the Red Death.”
Central to the power of horror fiction is the way a horror story can evoke a liminal state – an uncertain borderland between life and death, or the human and the non-human, or the organic and the mechanical, or good and evil. Poe’s tales always excelled in that regard – something I was reminded of when I read “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar.”
On this reading of a story about a physician who uses hypnosis to enable a terminally ill patient to speak from beyond the grave, I thought once again of historical context, as I know that belief in “mesmerism” was quite widespread in the mid-19th century. This time, however, I was struck by the way Poe adopts the language of the patient case report, as when the narrator says of M. Valdemar’s failing lungs that “The left lung had been for eighteen months in a semiosseous or cartilaginous state” and that “The right [lung], in its upper portion, was also partially, if not totally ossified….Several extensive perforations existed; and, at one point, permanent adhesion to the ribs had taken place. These appearances in the right lobe were of comparatively recent date” (p. 302).
For me, Poe’s appropriation of the detached, clinical language of the patient case report added to the power of the story. The narrator is a man of science, of facts and numbers and data; but then comes the moment when the narrator asks the hypnotized M. Valdemar, “Do you still sleep,” and Valdemar replies, “Yes; -- no; -- I have been sleeping – and now – now – I am dead” (pp. 305, 307).
At this point, the narrator’s safe scientific rationality abandons him, replaced by absolute horror: “No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress, the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus uttered, were so well calculated to convey” (p. 307). And that is before we see the grisly consequences that unfold after the narrator, having permitted Valdemar’s body to linger on for seven months in an ambiguous state of death-in-life-in-death, ends the mesmeric trance. As editor Galloway aptly puts it, this is “Certainly Poe’s most horrific story” (p. 482).
The passages of Poe’s nonfiction and criticism that are included here are particularly helpful. Some of the nonfiction included here is likely to be familiar to admirers of Poe’s work; his review of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Twice-Told Tales,” in which he sets forth his beliefs regarding what a good short story should do; his “Philosophy of Composition,” in which he provides a (dubious) recounting of how he supposedly composed “The Raven”; his “The Poetic Principle,” a poetic manifesto that was once one of his most popular lectures.
But what I found particularly interesting here, because it was new to me, was the way editor Galloway provides helpful excerpts from Poe’s essay “The American Drama.” Here, we see Poe’s ongoing dedication to the ideal that great literature should always introduce something new to the literary dialogue – along with his concern at seeing dramatic literature in the United States falling far short of that ideal.
As an example of the problems he sees with American drama, Poe cites a play he actually likes! -- Tortesa, or the American Usurer (1839), by Poe’s friend and sometime collaborator Nathaniel Parker Willis.
Poe believes that American drama is in thrall to Shakespearean drama, and incapable of moving beyond Shakespearean norms for language and performance. In order to prove his point, he takes Tortesa – a play he liked, by a writer who was a friend – and damns it with faint praise, pointing out how often Willis had utilized Shakespearean plot turns. Poe states that the play’s hero “and the lady love at first sight (much in the manner of Romeo and Juliet)” (p. 403). Not long afterward, Poe discusses how the heroine of the play, facing an unwanted marriage to a man she does not love, “has prepared a sleeping potion, whose effects resemble those of death (Romeo and Juliet)” (p. 403).
I can’t help wondering how Willis felt when he read this “tribute” from the hand of his friend Edgar.
Each collection of Poe’s work that I read unfolds, for me, new insights regarding the work of this author who may be the most important and influential author in all of American literary history. If you like Poe’s work, as I do, then you should seek out this collection.