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Stendahl
drank
it
in
,
the
dreariness
,
the
oppression
,
the
fetid
vapors
,
the
whole
"
atmosphere
,
"
so
delicately
contrived
and
fitted
.
And
that
House
!
That
crumbling
horror
,
that
evil
lake
,
the
fungi
,
the
extensive
decay
!
Plastic
or
otherwise
,
who
could
guess
?
He
looked
at
the
autumn
sky
.
Somewhere
above
,
beyond
,
far
off
,
was
the
sun
.
Somewhere
it
was
the
month
of
April
on
the
planet
Mars
,
a
yellow
month
with
a
blue
sky
.
Somewhere
above
,
the
rockets
burned
down
to
civilize
a
beautifully
dead
planet
.
The
sound
of
their
screaming
passage
was
muffled
by
this
dim
,
soundproofed
world
,
this
ancient
autumn
world
.
"
Now
that
my
job
’
s
done
,
"
said
Mr
.
Bigelow
uneasily
,
"
I
feel
free
to
ask
what
you
’
re
going
to
do
with
all
this
.
"
"
With
Usher
?
Haven
’
t
you
guessed
?
"
"
No
.
"
"
Does
the
name
Usher
mean
nothing
to
you
?
"
"
Nothing
.
"
"
Well
,
what
about
this
name
:
Edgar
Allan
Poe
?
"
Mr
.
Bigelow
shook
his
head
.
"
Of
course
.
"
Stendahl
snorted
delicately
,
a
combination
of
dismay
and
contempt
.
"
How
could
I
expect
you
to
know
blessed
Mr
.
Poe
?
He
died
a
long
while
ago
,
before
Lincoln
.
