In the Past, I have done small
rewrites of the words of HP Lovecraft. This
is a minor writing exercise that I chose to do because… I don’t it is something
to do. Considering the world wide
pandemic I figured I would do a slight redux of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death”. It is a pretty good
story. If I had any real criticisms they
would be he uses too many instances of “and” or “but”, and he definitely uses
the phrase “to and fro” far too often. Really
long paragraphs and run on sentences… Edgar, buddy, I love the semi colon too,
but maybe just rework things… Just give my mortal eyes a break in the text
please.
I kind of wish he had worked
this all into a poem like “The Raven”, and I am uncertain as to whether he
intended any symbolic motif with the color rooms. I could look up some interpretations, but I
did not want to spend more than a couple hours on this as a break from doing
actual work. If you haven’t read the
story before, please enjoy. If you have
read the story before but found the language choice a little off for a modern
reader, try mine and see if you like it.
I mean it is still English, it is not that hard to touch up.
The Masque
of the Red Death
The
"Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, so
hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its
seal—the redness and the horror of blood.
Sharp and sudden pains, dizziness, and then the bleeding from the pores.
The scarlet stains upon the body and face
of the victims, were the mark of death shutting him out from the aid and sympathy
of their countrymen. From seizure to
termination, took as little as half an hour.
But Prospero,
the happy Prince, when his dominions were half depopulated, summoned to his
presence a thousand vigorous and light-hearted friends from among the knights
and dames of his court. With these revelers
retired to the deep seclusion of one of his vast manors.
This was a
magnificent structure. The creation of
the Prince's own eccentric and august taste. A strong and lofty wall girded it
all in with gates of iron and the visages of angels, muses, satyrs, and nymphs
gazing down on the revelers.
Having
entered, the courtiers brought furnaces and hammers to weld and clasp the
bolts. Resolved to leave no easy ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of
despair or of frenzy from within. The Manor was amply provisioned. With such
precautions the courtiers would prove defiant to the contagion. “The external
world will take care of itself.” “They
shall learn cleanliness and godliness.” “And
those with faith will be kept pure.”
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 dancers, there were
musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were
within. Without was the "Red Death".
It was
towards the close of the fifth or sixth month of this seclusion, and while the
pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained
his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.
It was a voluptuous
scene, this masquerade held in 7 rooms of the manor. An imperial suite allowed passage to each. Unlike those found elsewhere, as in many
palaces such suites form a long and straight vista with folding doors sliding
back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent
is scarcely impeded. Here in the manor of Prince Prospero, the case was very
different, as one might have expected from the host’s love of the bizarre.
The
apartments were arranged irregularly that one’s sight embraced but little more
than one at a time. A sharp turn every twenty or thirty yards made each view
its own contained vision. Each turn
promising a novel effect.
To the right
and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked
out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These
windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the
prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. The
eastern extremity was hung in blue and vividly blue were its windows. The
second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes
were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The
fourth was furnished and lighted with orange, the fifth with white, the sixth
with violet.
The seventh apartment
was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling
and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material
and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to
correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet, the deepest color
of slow flowing blood.
In not one
of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabra. No tool to shed light was part of any
profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or hung from the ceiling.
But in the corridors that followed the
suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier
of fire, that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly
illumined the room. And thus were produced a rainbow of gaudy and fantastic
appearances.
But in the
black chamber the effect of the firelight that streamed upon the dark hangings
through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme. It produced so wild a look upon the faces of
those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot
within it.
It was in
this black apartment that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic ebony
clock. The pendulum swinging with dull, heavy, monotonous clang. When the minute-hand made the circuit of the
face, and the hour was to be struck, there came from the brazen lungs of the
clock a sound which was clear, loud, deep, and exceedingly musical.
That musical
sound struck each hour was so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse,
the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause in their performance. Just for for that moment to harken to the
sound. The waltzers ceased mid step,
conversation hushed, and there was a cold pause.
While the
chimes of the clock rang, it was observed that the giddiest drained of color,
and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if lost in
thought or waking from a dream. And when
the echoes had fully ceased the warmth of light laughter returned the assembly
to life. At once the musicians looked at
each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly and made
whispering vows to each other that the next chiming of the clock should produce
in them no similar emotion.
And then,
after the lapse of sixty minutes, 3,600 seconds that flew by, there came yet
another chiming of the clock, and then were the same paleness on faces, the
same stillness, and the same meditation as before.
In spite of
these things, it was magnificent revelry. Prospero’s peculiar tastes on full
display. He had a fine eye for colors and effects and disregarded mere fashion.
His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric luster.
There are some who would have thought him mad. But those he had gathered there for so many
months in his pleasure palace. His island
in a sea of plague, they did not see him as mad. They could see him move from guest to guest,
with jokes and pleasantries, drawing in close the girls and ladies for kisses, clasping
hands with the men and boys. He was not
mad to them. He was alive. Radiantly alive.
Prospero had
conducted the embellishments of the seven chambers, more couches, more beds,
more blankets to facilitate this great fête; and it was his own guiding taste
which had given character to the masqueraders.
There were
delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There were much of the beautiful, much of the
wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of
that which might have excited disgust. Be
sure they were grotesque, but with a strange sense of humor to them. So much
glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm.
And so much flesh on display, as guests shed garments till little aside
from mask, boots, and maybe a matching hat and belt.
Thru the
seven chambers there came a multitude of dreams, writhing in and about taking
hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the
echo of their steps. And then it came, the striking of the hour by the ebony
clock which stood in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is
still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock.
Frozen stiff
are the dreams and the echoes of the chime die away. They have endured but an
instant when the giggles and nervous laughter floats after them as they depart.
Now again the music swells, and the
dreams live and writhe more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many tinted
windows through which stream the rays from the tripods.
But to the
most western chamber of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who
venture. For the night is waning away;
and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes. The blackness of the sable drapery appalls;
and to him whose footfalls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near
clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemn and emphatic than any which reaches
their ears who indulged in the gaieties of the other rooms.
But these
other apartments are densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of
life. Debauchery goes whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the
sounding of midnight upon the clock.
The music
ceased. The movement of dancers
paused. There was an uneasy cessation of
all things as before. But unlike before there were now twelve strokes to be
sounded by the bell of the ebony clock.
And in that time it happened. Perhaps
with that moment more, thought crept into the meditations of the thoughtful
among those who stood masked and naked.
Thus too, it
happened that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into
silence, there were many in the crowd who had become aware of the presence of a
figure who had gone unnoticed before. A murmur
of rumor of this new presence whispered around.
A buzzing of nerves as many in the party drew back from this
figure. At first it was curious surprise, then unease then,
finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.
In an
assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no
ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license
of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded
Herod and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum.
There are
chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without
emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests,
there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed,
seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger
neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded
from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the
visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse
that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And
yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revelers
around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death.
His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of
the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.
Prince
Prospero’s eyes fell upon this spectral image which glided with a slow and
solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked among the dancers.
Prospero was seen to be convulsed, at
first with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste, but then his brow
reddened with rage.
"Who
dares," Prospero demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him. "Who
dares insult us with this? This blasphy? This mockery? Seize him! Seize and unmask him! That we might know whom we are going to hang!"
It was in
the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince as he shouted these
words. Causing the guests to shrink from him.
The words rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly. The Prince was a bold and robust man, and the
music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.
It was in
the blue room where stood the prince, with pale courtiers by his side. At
first, as he spoke, there were halfhearted movements in the direction of the
intruder, who turned with deliberate and stately step. The guests fell back as the figure made closer
approach to the Prince.
From nameless
awe the intruder had inspired the whole party, there came none who would or
could put forth a hand to seize him. Unimpeded,
he passed within a yard of the Prince's person and then stood with their back
to the Prince and then strode deeper into the party.
While the
vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centers of the rooms to
the walls, he made his way uninterrupted, but with the same solemn and measured
step which had distinguished him. Thru
the blue chamber to the purple, the purple to the green, the green to the
orange, on to the white, and even then to the violet.
There in the
violet room a decided movement had been made to arrest him. Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the
shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers. While none followed him, he snatched up a dagger,
and approached with all the courage being armed afforded.
The figure
was on the cusp of the black room as Prospero approached with rapid steps to
within three or four feet of the figure.
Then the intruder turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was
a guttural cry and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon
which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. The Intruder stepped backward away from the
body of the Prince and into the black room.
Summoning
the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revelers at once threw themselves
into the black apartment. The figure
stood tall and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock. They grasped at him and then in unutterable
horror found the garments, the grave cerements and corpse-like mask pulled away
in their hands and where a man should be, there was nothing.
And now was
acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the
night. And one by one dropped the revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of the
manor they died each in the despairing posture of his fall. The life of the
ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the
tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable
dominion over all.
 |
This illustration is over 100 years old. Honestly it is kind of crummy.
The entire damn story is about color, this is black and white.
I have no idea what is happening with the design elements here. |
Here are some links to the HP Lovecraft stuff I mentioned at the top,
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