ChatGPT is pretty good at writing prose and, to a greater or lesser extent, can imitate different writing styles. So I wondered if it could write The Masque of the Red Death in a kind of modernist, stream-of-consciousness style. The answer is maybe, but not this time.
The result is not too much like Woolf's or Joyce's prose, but it is very readable and is probably more accessible than the original, at least to the modern reader.
Note: ChatGPT can only generate a limited amount of text at a time, so to coax ChatGPT into writing the story in chunks, rather than trying to summarise it all at once, I had to prompt it with something like "Rewrite the following text from Poe's The Masque of the Red Death in the first person past tense from the point of view of a guardian knight, using a highly emotional, stream-of-consciousness style with interior monologue similar to that of Virginia Woolf and James Joyce. Be sure not to use any of the original sentences, and use evocative, painterly metaphors:" and "Continue the story from the perspective of the knight by rewriting the following text in the same vein. Be sure not to use any of the original sentences, and use evocative, painterly metaphors."
The Masque of the Red Death, in the style of Woolf and Joyce
I was a guardian knight for the Prince Prospero, sworn to protect him at all costs. The Red Death had ravaged the land for months, leaving a trail of blood and despair in its wake. Its symptoms were brutal - sharp pains, dizziness, and then the inevitable bleeding from every pore, until death. The scarlet stains that marked its victims were a curse, condemning them to isolation and loneliness. The whole ordeal lasted just half an hour, but it was a lifetime of suffering.
But the prince was different. He was happy, fearless, and wise. As the plague decimated his kingdom, he called upon a thousand of his closest friends and knights, including myself, to join him in a secluded abbey. It was a grand and opulent structure, built to the prince's own unique taste, with high walls and iron gates. We all worked together to weld the gates shut, determined to keep out any impulses of despair or madness. The abbey was stocked with everything we needed to weather the storm - food, entertainment, wine, and beauty. The outside world could fend for itself, as long as we had each other and all the comforts within.
It was at the height of the plague, during the fifth or sixth month of our isolation, that the prince threw a masked ball of extraordinary splendor.
It was a luxurious masquerade, held in seven irregularly shaped rooms - an imperial suite. Most palaces have straight corridors with folding doors that slide open to reveal the full length of the suite, but not here. The prince had a taste for the bizarre, and each room was arranged in a way that only allowed a limited view at a time. There were sharp turns every twenty or thirty yards, each one revealing a new surprise. On either side of the walls, tall and narrow Gothic windows looked out onto a closed corridor that followed the twists and turns of the suite. The windows were made of stained glass, each one a different color corresponding to the hue of the room it opened into. The eastern room was blue, the second purple, the third green, the fourth orange, the fifth white, the sixth violet. The seventh room, however, was shrouded in black velvet tapestries that covered the ceiling and walls, falling in heavy folds onto a carpet of the same color. The windows in this room were scarlet, a deep blood color. None of the rooms had any lamps or candelabra, but in the corridors outside each window stood a heavy tripod with a brazier of fire that cast its rays through the tinted glass, brightly illuminating the rooms. This created a multitude of dazzling and fantastical appearances. But in the western, or black, room, the firelight streaming through the blood-tinted windows gave a ghastly appearance, causing many of the guests to avoid setting foot inside.
It was in the western room where a massive ebony clock stood against the wall. Its pendulum swung back and forth with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang, and when the minute hand completed a circuit of the face, the clock struck the hour with a clear, loud, deep, and extremely musical note that was so peculiar it caused the musicians in the orchestra to pause momentarily in their performance, and the waltzers to stop their dancing. The whole company was momentarily disconcerted, and even the giddiest of guests grew pale while the more mature ones passed their hands over their brows as if in confusion or contemplation. But as soon as the echoes had fully faded, light laughter filled the room as the musicians smiled at their own nervousness and made whispered vows to each other not to be affected by the next chime. Sixty minutes later, when the clock struck again, there was the same disconcert and hesitation among the guests.
Despite these moments of unease, it was a lavish and magnificent celebration. The prince had a unique taste for color and effects, disregarding the traditional decorations of fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his ideas glowed with a barbaric radiance. Some might have thought him mad, but those who knew him understood that he was not. It was necessary to see, hear, and touch him to be sure.
The prince had taken great care in decorating the seven rooms for the masquerade, and it was his own unique taste that gave character to the costumes of the guests. They were certainly bizarre, with mismatched limbs and extravagant adornments, delirious fancies, and a mix of the beautiful, wanton, and grotesque, with a hint of terror and disgust. The rooms were filled with a multitude of dreams that seemed to writhe and take on the hues of the rooms, and the wild music of the orchestra seemed like the echo of their steps. Suddenly, the ebony clock in the hall would strike, causing a moment of stillness and silence, as the dreams froze in place. But as the chimes faded, a light, half-subdued laughter followed them as they retreated. The music would swell again, and the dreams came back to life, writhing more merrily than before, taking on the colors of the tinted windows through which the light from the tripods streamed. But no one dared venture into the westernmost room, where the night was drawing to a close and a ruddier light shone through the blood-colored windows. The blackness of the sable drapery was intimidating, and the muffled peal of the nearby ebony clock, more solemn and emphatic than any of the other rooms, echoed through the chamber.
But while the western room was empty, the other rooms were densely crowded, pulsing with the energy of life. The revelry continued until midnight, when the music stopped and the dancing slowed, replaced by a tense stillness. The clock struck twelve times, and as the last echoes faded, many in the crowd found themselves noticing a masked figure that had not been there before. The rumor of this new presence spread quickly, and there was a whisper of disapproval and surprise, followed by fear, horror, and disgust. In a crowd of phantoms such as the ones at the masquerade, it would take a truly extraordinary appearance to stir such a reaction. The masker had gone beyond even the prince's loose standards of propriety, with a costume and bearing that showed no wit or propriety. The figure was tall and gaunt, dressed in the clothes of the grave and wearing a mask that so closely resembled a stiffened corpse that it took close scrutiny to see the deception. But the masker had gone even further, taking on the appearance of the Red Death itself. The costume was splattered with blood, and the broad forehead and features were sprinkled with the scarlet horror.
When the prince laid eyes on the ghostly figure, which moved slowly and solemnly among the waltzers as if to fully embrace its role, he was first overcome with terror or disgust, followed by anger. "Who dares to insult us with this blasphemous mockery?" he demanded hoarsely of the nearby courtiers. "Seize him and unmask him so we can hang him from the battlements at sunrise!" His words rang clearly through the seven rooms as he stood in the eastern room, the blue one. He was a bold and robust man, and the music had stopped at the wave of his hand.
The prince stood in the blue room with a group of pale courtiers by his side. As he spoke, the group began to move towards the intruder, who approached the prince with stately steps. But no one put forth a hand to seize him, out of fear of the madman's assumptions, and he passed within a yard of the prince's person. He made his way through the blue room to the purple, then to the green, orange, white, and violet, before anyone moved to stop him. The prince, filled with rage and shame at his own cowardice, rushed through the six rooms with a drawn dagger, pursuing the figure. He approached within a few feet of the retreating figure, but as he reached the end of the violet room, the figure turned and faced him. The prince let out a sharp cry and dropped the dagger as he fell to the ground, dead. The other revelers summoned the courage of despair and rushed into the black room, seizing the tall, motionless figure in the shadow of the ebony clock. But they were horrified to find the grave clothes and corpse-like mask were empty, with no tangible form inside.
The Red Death had arrived like a thief in the night, and one by one, the revelers fell to the ground, covered in blood, and died in despair. The life of the ebony clock went out with the last of the revelers, and the flames of the tripods extinguished. Darkness, decay, and the Red Death held sway over all.
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