"The Masque of the Red Death": the famous work of Edgar Allan Poe. Edgar Poe - mask of the red death

EDGAR ALAN POE.

Mask of the Red Death

THE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF ONE HANS PFAAL

To the dreams of crazy hearts

I am the ruler from now on

With a burning spear and an air horse

I'm wandering in the desert.

Song of Tom of Bedlam

According to the latest news received from Rotterdam, in this city representatives of scientific and philosophical thought are gripped by great excitement. Something so unexpected, so new, so inconsistent with established views happened there that in a short time - I have no doubt about it - all of Europe will be agitated, naturalists will be alarmed, and confusion will begin among astronomers and naturalists, unprecedented before.

The following happened. On such and such a date and such and such a month (I cannot give the exact date) a huge crowd for some reason gathered on the Exchange Square of the well-organized city of Rotterdam. The day was warm - not at all in keeping with the season - without the slightest breeze; and the complacent mood of the crowd was not at all darkened by the fact that sometimes it was sprinkled with an instant light rain from huge white clouds scattered in abundance across the blue sky. Nevertheless, about noon, a slight but extraordinary uneasiness was felt in the crowd: ten thousand tongues began to mutter at once; a moment later, ten thousand pipes, as if by order, flew out of ten thousand mouths, and a long, loud, wild cry, which can only be compared with the roar of Niagara, reverberated through the streets and environs of Rotterdam.

The reason for this commotion soon became clear. From behind the sharply defined mass of a huge cloud, a strange, very motley, but apparently dense object of such a curious shape and from such an intricate material slowly emerged and outlined itself in the clear azure that the crowd of strong-headed burghers standing below with their mouths agape, I could only marvel, not understanding anything. What is it? For the sake of all the devils of Rotterdam, what could this mean? No one knew, no one could even imagine, no one - not even the burgomaster Minger Superbus van Underduck himself - had the key to this secret; and since nothing more reasonable could be thought of, in the end each of the burghers put his pipe back into the corner of his mouth and, without taking his eyes off the mysterious phenomenon, blew out a puff of smoke, paused, shifted from foot to foot, grunted significantly - then stepped again from foot to foot, grunted, paused and blew out a puff of smoke.

Meanwhile the object of so intense curiosity and the cause of so many puffs descended lower and lower over this beautiful city. After a few minutes it could be examined in detail.

It seemed like... no, it really was a balloon; but, without a doubt, such a ball had never been seen in Rotterdam. Who, let me ask you, has ever heard of a balloon made from old newspapers? In Holland - no one, I can assure you; nevertheless, at the present moment, under the very noses of those gathered, or, more precisely, above the nose, this very thing was swaying at a certain height, made, according to a completely authoritative person, from the mentioned material, which, as everyone knows, has never before been used for similar goals, and this caused a cruel insult to the common sense of the Rotterdam burghers. The “ball” shape turned out to be even more offensive. It looked like a huge fool's cap, upside down. This resemblance was in no way diminished when, on closer inspection, the crowd noticed a huge brush suspended from its pointed end, and around the upper edge, or base of the cone, a number of small instruments like bells, which tinkled merrily. Moreover, instead of a gondola, hanging from this fantastic machine was a huge dark castor hat with the widest brim and a black ribbon with a silver buckle wrapped around the crown. But a strange thing: many of the Rotterdam citizens were ready to swear that they had seen this very hat more than once, and the whole crowd looked at it as if it were an old friend, and Frau Gretel Pfaal, emitting a joyful exclamation, announced that it was her own her dear hubby's hat. It should be noted that about five years ago Pfaal and three comrades disappeared from Rotterdam in the most unexpected and unusual way, and since then there has been no word or breath about him. Later, in a remote corner on the eastern outskirts of the city, a heap of bones, apparently human, was discovered mixed with some strange rags and debris, and some of the citizens even imagined that a bloody atrocity had been committed here, the victims of which were Hans Pfaal and his comrades. But let's return to the incident.

The balloon (for it was undoubtedly a balloon) was now at an altitude of some hundred feet, and the public could easily see its passenger. To tell the truth, it was a very strange creature.

His height did not exceed two feet; but even with such a small stature, he could easily lose his balance and tumble over the side of his amazing gondola, if not for a hoop placed at the height of his chest and attached to the ball with ropes. The man's thickness did not correspond at all to his height and gave his entire figure an extremely absurd spherical appearance. His legs, of course, were not visible. The hands were enormous in size. Gray hair was gathered at the back of his head and braided. He had a red, excessively long, hooked nose, brilliant, piercing eyes, wrinkled and at the same time plump cheeks, but not the slightest sign of ears anywhere on his head; The strange old man was dressed in a spacious satin camisole of sky blue color and short tight trousers of the same color, with silver buckles at the knees. In addition, he was wearing a vest of some bright yellow material, a soft white hat, smartly tilted to one side, and a blood-red silk scarf, tied with a huge bow, the ends of which fell dapperly on his chest.

When, as has already been said, there were only about a hundred feet left to the ground, the old man suddenly began to fuss, apparently not wanting to get any closer to terra firma note 1. With great effort, lifting the linen bag, he poured out a little sand from it, and the ball on stopped in the air for a moment. Then the old man hurriedly pulled a large morocco-bound notebook from his side pocket and weighed it suspiciously in his hand, looking at it with the greatest amazement, obviously amazed at its heaviness. Then he opened the book and, taking out a package sealed with sealing wax and carefully tied with red ribbon, threw it right at the feet of the mayor Superbus van Underduk. His Excellency bent down to pick up the package. But the aeronaut, still in great excitement and, obviously, considering his business in Rotterdam over, began at that very moment to prepare for departure. To do this, it was necessary to lighten the gondola, and so half a dozen bags, which he threw out without bothering to empty them first, plopped one after another onto the burgomaster's back and forced this dignitary to somersault as many times in front of the whole city. One should not think, however, that the great Underduk left the old man’s brazen prank unpunished.

On the contrary, they say that, as he fell, each time he released at least half a dozen huge and furious puffs from his pipe, which he held tightly in his teeth all the time and intended to hold (with God's help) until his last breath.

Silence

The mountain peaks are slumbering, the valley, cliff and cave are silent.

“Listen to me,” said the demon, placing his hand on my head. – The sad country I’m talking about is Libya, on the banks of the Zaire River. And there is neither peace nor silence there.

The waters of the saffron-colored river are fetid, and they do not flow into the sea, but forever tremble under the hot gaze of the sun, frantically and rebelliously agitated. On each side of this river, with its muddy bed, stretches for many miles a pale desert overgrown with gigantic lilies. They sigh for each other in their solitude, stretch out their long transparent necks to the sky and bow their tender heads to one side or the other. And from them comes a vague murmur, like the voice of an underground stream.

But there is a border to their kingdom, and this border is a tall forest, gloomy and terrible. There, like sea waves around the Hebrides, low bushes sway incessantly. And the huge centuries-old trees are forever swaying from side to side with a mighty roar. Eternal dew trickles down their trunks. At their feet, strange poisonous flowers wriggle in a mad dance. Above the tree branches, gray clouds noisily rush to the west and there, behind the hot wall of the sky, they fall like a waterfall. Meanwhile, there is no movement in the air, there is neither peace nor silence.

It was night and the rain began to fall, and in the air when it fell it was water, but when it fell to the ground it became blood. And I stood in the swamp, among the tall lilies, and the rain fell on my head, and the lilies sighed for each other in the solemnity of their loneliness.

And suddenly the Moon slipped out of the light haze of the sad fog, and it was crimson in color. And my gaze fell on a huge cliff rising on the bank of the river and illuminated by the brilliance of the night luminary. The cliff was gray, ominous and very high. Signs were inscribed on his stone forehead. I moved forward among the lilies, through the quagmire, until I approached the shore in order to read the mysterious signs. But I couldn't make them out. I was about to return to the swamp when the moon shone with a piercing red light. I turned around and looked again at the cliff and at the signs, and these signs formed the word “despair.”

I looked up and saw a man on the top of the cliff, and I hid among the lilies to follow his actions. And this man was tall, had a majestic appearance and was wrapped from shoulders to feet in a toga from the times of Ancient Rome. The outlines of his figure seemed unclear, but his face was the face of a deity, I saw this, despite the cover of night and fog. His forehead was high and perfect, his gaze was confused with care, and in the wrinkles of his brow I read a sad story of suffering, fatigue, disgust for humanity and craving for solitude.

The man sat down on the cliff and, leaning his head on his hand, looked around this vale of despair. He looked at the bushes, always restless, and at the large ancient trees; he looked higher up at the sky, where the noise was coming from, and at the crimson moon. And I hid among the lilies and watched his actions. The man shivered in solitude, meanwhile night was approaching, and he still remained on the cliff.

But then he took his gaze away from the sky and directed it to the sad Zaire River, and to the yellow dull waters, and to the pale hosts of lilies, listening to the roar that came from them. And I hid in my hiding place and watched his actions. The wanderer trembled in solitude; the night was approaching, and he remained sitting on the cliff.

Then I cursed the elements with the curse of the storm - and a terrifying whirlwind gathered in the air, where there had not been the slightest breath before. And the sky turned purple from a fierce thunderstorm, and the rain lashed the man on the head, and the waters overflowed the banks, and the irritated river made noise with foam, and the water lilies screamed in their bed, and the forest bowed, crackling, in the wind, and thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed, and the rock shook at its foundation. I, hiding in my refuge, watched the actions of the sufferer and saw that he was trembling in solitude. Meanwhile, night was approaching, and he was still sitting on the cliff.

Then I flew into a rage and cursed the river, the wind, the forest, the sky, the thunder, and the sighs of the lilies with a curse of silence. And they were struck by my anger and became silent. And the Moon stopped its difficult path across the sky, and the thunder fell silent, and the lightning did not appear anymore, and the clouds hung motionless, and the waters entered their banks and remained in them, and the trees stopped swaying, and the lilies no longer sighed or murmured. Not a shadow of a sound in the entire vast, boundless desert. And I looked at the signs inscribed on the cliff. They changed and now made up a new word - “silence”.

My gaze fell again on the man’s face, and it was pale with horror. He quickly took his hand away from his head, climbed onto the cliff and listened. But not a single sound was heard throughout the vast, boundless desert, and the signs inscribed on the cliff still meant “silence.” And the man shuddered, turned in the opposite direction and hastily ran away so far, far away that I no longer saw him.”

Yes, there are beautiful tales in the books of magicians - in the sad books of magicians, bound in iron. There are there, I say, magnificent stories of heaven and earth, of the mighty world of geniuses who reigned in the sea, on earth and in the majestic sky. Much wisdom is hidden in the words spoken by the Sibyls, and many mysterious things were once heard by the dark leaves that trembled around Dodona, but, by Allah, this tale, which the demon told me, sitting near me under the shadow of the grave monument, I consider the most amazing of all. everyone! And when he finished his story, he fell into the depths of the grave and began to laugh. I couldn't laugh with the demon, and he cursed me because I couldn't share his feelings. And the lynx, which always lives nearby, came out of the shadows, lay down at the feet of the demon and looked intently into his eyes.

Berenice

There are various misfortunes. Earthly grief is heterogeneous; dominating the vast horizon like a rainbow, the colors of human suffering are just as different and just as fused, and it reigns in the same way over the horizon of life.

I can tell a terrible story and would willingly keep silent about it if it were a chronicle of feelings and not facts. My name is Egey, but I won’t give my last name. There is no castle in the country more glorious, more ancient than my sad old ancestral home. Since ancient times, our family has been considered clairvoyant, and indeed, from many amazing little things: from the nature of the construction of our castle, from the frescoes on the walls of the living room, from the wallpaper of the bedroom, from the stucco work of the pilasters of the armory hall, but mainly from the gallery of ancient paintings, from the appearance of the library and, finally, from the character of the books of this library, a conclusion may be easily deduced in support of this opinion.

Memories of the first years of my life are associated with the library hall and its books. My mother died there, I was born there. But it would be strange to say that I have not lived before, that the soul has no previous existence. Are you rejecting my idea? Let's not argue about this. I am convinced and therefore I will not convince you. In the human soul there lives some memory of ghostly forms, of imaginary eyes, of melodic but sad sounds - a memory that does not leave us, a memory like a shadow, vague, changeable, indefinite, trembling, and from this shadow it will be difficult for me free myself while at least one ray of my mind shines.

In this room I was born, in this room I spent my childhood among books and spent my youth in dreams. Reality seemed like a vision to me, while crazy dreams from the world of fantasy constituted not only the food for my daily existence, but also my real life.

Berenice was my cousin, and we grew up together in my father's castle. But we grew up completely different: I was sickly and eternally devoted to melancholy, she was lively, graceful and full of energy; her job was to run through the hills, mine was to study in lockdown. I lived indulging in persistent and difficult thoughts; she met life carefree, not caring either about the shadows on her way, or about the silent flight of time with its black wings.

Berenice! At the sound of her name, black shadows grow in my memory. Her image stands as if alive in front of me - the way she was in happy and cheerful days. How fantastically good she was! And then, then horror and darkness came, and something indescribable happened. Disease, a terrible disease, attacked her and before my eyes changed her so that it was difficult to recognize her. Alas, the disease retreated and came again, but the old Berenice never returned! I no longer knew the real Berenice, or at least did not recognize her as Berenice.

My cousin suffered chiefly from epilepsy, which often ended in a lethargy resembling death, and from which she would wake up quite suddenly. Meanwhile, my illness—I was told that it was nothing more than an illness—developed rapidly, intensified by excessive use of opium and, finally, took on the character of some strange monomania. With every hour, with every minute, the illness became stronger and, finally, completely subjugated me to its power. This monomania consisted of a terrible irritability of my mind. It is very possible that you do not understand me, and I am afraid that I will not be able to give you an accurate idea of ​​the nervous tension with which I plunged at such moments into the contemplation of the most ordinary things in the world.

My constant occupation used to be to think tirelessly, for hours at a time, over some quick note in the margins of a book or over a phrase; look thoughtfully throughout the whole long summer day at the bizarre shadows creeping along the walls; forgetting yourself at night, looking at the direct beam from a lamp or the flame of coals in the fireplace; dreaming all day long over the scent of a flower; monotonously repeat some ordinary words until the sound from repetition ceases to occupy thoughts; in complete peace, lose all memory of movement and physical existence.

At such moments, my thoughts never switched to other objects, but stubbornly revolved around their center. It will seem natural to an inattentive person that the terrible change in Berenice’s state of mind, as a result of her serious illness, should have become the subject of my reflections. But nothing happened. In moments of enlightenment, her misfortune really upset me, I thought with sadness about the change that had taken place in her. However, these thoughts had nothing to do with my hereditary disease. My upset mind was nourished not by a moral change, but by a physical one, which had terribly changed Berenice.

In those days when she was strikingly beautiful, and that much is certain, I did not love her. My feelings did not come from my heart, but always from my head. Berenice appeared to me not as the real Berenice, but as the Berenice of my dreams, not an earthly, but an abstract being. Now I trembled in her presence, turned pale at her approach; While grieving over her death, I still remembered that once upon a time she loved me, and in a sad moment I started talking to her about marriage.

The day appointed for our wedding was approaching. One afternoon I was sitting in the library; I thought that there was no one in the room except me, but, looking up, I saw Berenice standing in front of me.

She seemed somehow ghostly and tall to me. I silently leaned back in my chair, she also stood silently. Her thinness was terrible; there was nothing left of the former Berenice in her. Finally, my gaze fell on her face.

The once black hair was now blond, and the dull and faded eyes seemed devoid of eyelashes. I looked at the lips. They opened with a special smile, and the teeth of the new Berenice appeared before my eyes. It would be better for me to never see them, or, having seen them, it would be better to die!

The creaking of the door woke me up; Looking up, I saw that my cousin was not in the room. But the white and terrible ghost of her teeth did not leave her and did not want to leave the room. There was not a dot or a speck on their surface. A fleeting smile was enough for these teeth to be etched into my memory. And then I saw them as clearly as before, I saw them even more clearly than before. Teeth appeared to me here and there, they were everywhere: long, narrow and unusually white, with pale lips drawn in around them. Then a fit of monomania finally took possession of me, and I struggled in vain against its irresistible and strange influence. In the endless number of objects in the outside world, all I could think about was this girl’s teeth. I felt passionately attracted to them. My whole being was absorbed in the thought of teeth. I studied them, and it seemed to me that Berenice's teeth were ideas. And this crazy thought destroyed me. That’s why I strove for them so passionately! I felt that only the possession of them could restore my sanity.

Days passed one after another, and I still sat in my room; The ghost of teeth loomed before my mind's eye. One day my reverie was interrupted by a scream of horror, followed by sobs and sighs. I got up, opened the door and saw the maid, who told me that Berenice was dead.

With my heart sinking with fear and disgust, I went to the deceased’s bedroom. The room was large and gloomy; At every step I came across preparations for the funeral.

“The coffin,” the servant told me, “stands behind the curtain on the bed, and Berenice lies in the coffin.”

Someone asked me if I wanted to see the dead woman. I did not notice that anyone’s lips were moving, and yet the question was asked, and the echo of the last words still sounded in the room. It was impossible to refuse, and with a feeling of some depression I headed to the bed. I quietly raised the curtains, and when I lowered them, they fell on my shoulders and separated me from the living world, locking me in with the deceased.

The room smelled of death. I felt faint: it seemed to me that the smell of decomposition was already emanating from the body. I would give everything in the world to escape from this terrible breath of death, to once again breathe the air under a clear sky. But I did not have the strength to move, my knees were shaking, I seemed rooted to the floor and gazed at the corpse stretched out in the coffin.

God! Could this be possible? Have I lost my mind? Or did the deceased really move a finger under the shroud? Trembling with fear, I raised my eyes to look at Berenice's face. The handkerchief that had been tied around his jaw came undone. Pale lips smiled, and from behind them Berenice’s white, shiny, terrible teeth looked at me. I jumped convulsively from the bed and, without saying a word, rushed out of this terrible room like a madman.

I found myself in the library and sitting in it alone. It seemed to me that I had awakened from some terrible, vague dream. It was midnight. I ordered that Berenice be buried before sunset, but I did not retain an exact memory of what happened during this time. And meanwhile I remembered something terrible, something unclear and therefore even more terrible - some terrible page of my existence, written in dark memories, terrible and illegible. I tried to make them out, but I couldn’t. Meanwhile, a sound similar to the piercing scream of a woman was heard in my ears from time to time. I definitely did something wrong. I asked myself out loud: “What is it?” And the echo of the room answered: “What is it?”

A lamp was burning on the table next to me, and next to it stood a box made of ebony. The box was ordinary, and I often saw it: it belonged to our family doctor. But how did it get to my table? Why did I tremble at the sight of him? My gaze finally fell on the pages of the open book and stopped at the underlined phrase. These were the strange but simple words of the poet Ibn Zayat: “Dicebant mihi sodales, si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, euros meas aliquantulum fore levatas.” Why do these words make my hair stand on end and my blood freeze in my veins?

Someone knocked quietly on the library door, and a servant, pale as death, came in on tiptoe. His eyes wandered with horror, and he spoke to me in a quiet, trembling, dull voice. What was he telling me? I only understood some phrases. It seems that he said that at night a terrible scream was heard in the castle and all the servants gathered and ran to the mysterious call. Then his voice became clearer; he talked about the desecration of the grave, about the disfigured corpse taken out of the coffin - a corpse that was still breathing, still shuddering, still alive.

He looked at my clothes - they were stained with dirt and blood. Without saying a word, he took my hand - there were traces of human nails on it. He drew my attention to an object leaning against the wall. I looked: it was a spade. Screaming, I rushed to the ebony box. But I lacked the strength to open it; slipping out of my hands, it fell heavily to the floor and broke into small pieces. Ringing, several teeth-pulling instruments jumped out of it, and with them thirty-two white small pieces, like bones, scattered all over the floor.

Cask of Amontillado

I bore as best I could the countless insults inflicted on me by Fortunato, but when he dared to inflict a real insult on me, I swore revenge. You, however, are already so familiar with the properties of my soul that, of course, you will not suspect for a minute that I decided to utter words of threat out loud.

At last I will be avenged; my decision is irrevocable, but I must carry it out without any risk. I need to not only punish this man, but also remain unpunished. Evil is not avenged if the avenger is in turn subject to retribution. In the same way, it is not washed away when the person who caused it does not realize whose hand is punishing him for what he did. Please note: neither by word nor by deed did I give Fortunato any reason to doubt my good attitude towards him. I continued to smile at him, as always, and he did not suspect that now I was smiling at the dream of killing him.

Fortunato had one weak side, although, to be honest, he was a man quite worthy of respect, and his courage was not subject to any doubt. In the matter of painting and precious stones, Fortunato was the same charlatan as his other fellow Italians, but he sincerely believed that he certainly knew a lot about old wines. We rarely discussed this topic with him, since I myself was a connoisseur of Italian wines and bought them whenever the opportunity arose to purchase something especially rare.

Finally I had the opportunity to get even with Fortunato. I met my friend in the evening, in the midst of the carnival. He had already drunk a little and greeted me with extreme warmth. He was dressed in a clownish striped suit, tightly fitting his body, and on his head was a comical cap with bells. We were both so happy to meet that it seemed like there would be no end to our handshakes.

“It’s great happiness that I met you, Fortunato,” I turned to him. -What a wonderful view you have today! And they brought me a barrel of wine, they say it’s Amontillado, but I’m tormented by something suspicious...

“What,” he exclaimed, “Amontillado?” A whole barrel? Can't be! And this is in the midst of the carnival!

“I’m tormented by suspicions,” I repeated, “and I did such a stupid thing: without consulting you, I paid for it as if it were a real Amontillado.” But I couldn’t find you anywhere, and meanwhile I was afraid of missing out on such a purchase.

- Amontillado!

- Something is suspicious.

- Amontillado!

– We still need to make sure of this.

- Amontillado!

“I see you are very busy, so I’ll go to Luchesi.” It's difficult to carry out. He will tell me exactly what I bought.

“Lucesi doesn’t know the difference between Amontillado and sherry!”

“Meanwhile, there are fools who claim that he understands wines just as well as you.”

- So be it, let's go!

- Where exactly?

- To your cellars.

- No, my friend, not for anything in the world: I don’t want to abuse your kindness. I see that you are busy. Luchesi...

“I have nothing to do here, let’s go.”

- No, my friend, under no circumstances. I can see perfectly well that you have a little cold. And the cellars are terribly damp. All their walls are covered with saltpeter.

- It doesn't mean anything, let's go. Colds are pure nonsense. You've probably been deceived. As for Luchesi, he is positively unable to distinguish sherry from Amontillado.

With these words, Fortunato grabbed my arm. I hastily put on a black silk mask, wrapped my cloak tightly around me, and we quickly walked to the palazzo.

None of the servants were at home: everyone had gone to have fun at the carnival. When leaving, I told everyone that I would not return until the morning, and strictly ordered them not to leave the house even a single step. I knew perfectly well that such an order was enough for everyone to run away from the palazzo as soon as I left.

I took two torches from their stands, handed one of them to Fortunato and led him through a long suite of rooms to the vault leading into the dungeon where the cellars were located. I was the first to go down the long spiral staircase, asking my friend to follow me as carefully as possible. Finally, we overcame the descent and found ourselves together in the damp basement of the Montresor catacombs. Fortunato moved through the basement with a slow, unsteady step, quietly jingling the bells of his cap as he walked.

- And where is the barrel? - he asked.

He turned around and looked at me with oily eyes that clearly indicated how drunk he was already.

- Saltpeter? – he asked finally.

“Saltpetre,” I nodded. How long have you had this cough?

My poor friend was choking and coughing and was unable to utter a word for several minutes.

“It’s nothing,” he barely managed to say.

“Let’s go,” I said decisively, “let’s go back - your health is priceless.” You are a rich, respected, noble man, you are as happy as I once was. Don't worry about me. We'll go back, I don't want to take responsibility if you get sick. Besides, Luchesi can...

- Enough! – he interrupted me. “This cough is nothing but nothing, nothing can happen to me.” I really won’t die from such a trivial ailment!

- Of course of course. I didn’t want to intimidate you needlessly, but still, caution never hurts. A sip of honey will protect you from dampness.

With these words, I opened the bottle, which I pulled out from the long row of her friends laid out on the ground.

“Drink,” I said, handing him the wine.

He raised the wine to his mouth and winked, then paused and nodded familiarly to me; the bells on his cap began to ring again.

“I drink,” he said, “to those who are buried here around us.”

- And I drink to your health for many years to come!

He took my hand again and we moved on.

“What vast catacombs,” he remarked.

“But the Montresor family was very numerous,” I objected.

– I forgot what your coat of arms is?

– A huge human foot steps on a crawling snake, which has dug its sting into its heel.

-What is the motto?

- Fine! - he said.

His eyes were warm from the wine, the bells were ringing. The honey I drank also fired up my imagination. On both sides of the passage were piles of bones mixed with barrels of wine. Making our way between them, we finally reached the most remote part of the catacombs. I stopped again and this time grabbed Fortunato by the arm, above the elbow.

“Look at the saltpeter,” I said, “look, it’s getting more and more.” She clung to these arches like moss. We are now under the river bed. Moisture seeps into the bones in drops. Let's go back before it's too late. Your cough...

“It’s okay,” he replied, “let’s move on.” But first, let’s take a sip of honey.

I handed him the bottle. He emptied it in one gulp. His eyes sparkled with a wild brilliance. He laughed and, with a gesture that was incomprehensible to me, threw the bottle up.

I looked at Fortunato in surprise. He repeated his strange movement again.

- You do not understand? – he turned to me.

“No, I don’t understand,” I answered.

- So you don’t belong to the fraternity?

- To what brotherhood?

– To the Masonic lodge?

- Yes Yes! - I said. - Of course I belong!

- You? It can not be! Mason?

“Yes, a Mason,” I answered.

- Give me a sign.

- Please.

I took a mason's shovel from under the folds of my cloak.

- Are you joking! – he screamed, retreating a few steps. “But let’s go further, take me to Amontillado.”

“Have it your way,” I answered, again hiding the shovel under the folds of my cloak and offering him my hand.

He leaned on her with all his weight. We went further in search of the same Amontillado, passed under a series of low arches, went down a few steps, took a few more steps, went down again and finally found ourselves in a deep crypt; in its fetid air our torches smoldered rather than burned.

In the farthest corner there was an exit to another, somewhat smaller crypt. Human bones were stacked in rows along the walls, their piles rising to the very vaults, like in the Parisian catacombs. The three walls of the inner crypt into which we entered were decorated in the same way. The fourth wall was free of bones; they lay on the floor, forming a decent pile. We saw a niche made in it, about four feet deep, three feet wide, and six or seven feet high. The recess appears to have been made without any particular purpose; it was an empty space between two massive columns of the vaults, its rear wall was formed by a solid mass of granite, of which the walls around the entire dungeon were made.

Fortunato raised his dim torch, trying to look inside the niche, but his efforts were in vain: the weak lighting did not allow us to distinguish the back wall of the recess.

- He is completely ignorant! - my friend interrupted me, walking forward with an unsteady gait, while I followed on his heels.

Another moment - and he reached the opposite side of the niche and, seeing that the rock was blocking his further path, he stopped in bewilderment. And at that moment I chained Fortunato to two iron clamps, located at a distance of two feet from each other. There was a short chain hanging from one bracket, and a padlock was attached to the other. I looped the chain around the Italian's body and locked it in an instant. He was so amazed that he didn’t even think of resisting. Taking the key out of the lock, I left the niche.

“Run your hand along the wall,” I told my friend, “and you will find saltpeter.” Really, it's terribly damp here. Once again I beg you: come back. You do not want? Well, in that case, I am positively forced to leave you here. But first I will try to accommodate you as best as possible.

- Amontillado! - my friend exclaimed, not yet having time to recover from surprise.

– That’s right: Amontillado.

With these words I began to rummage through the pile of bones. Soon I dug out underneath them a lot of hewn stone and lime and sand. With the help of the shovel I brought, I began to carefully seal the entrance to the recess.

I had hardly laid down the first row of stones when I noticed that Fortunato had sobered up considerably. The first sign of this was a dull groan that reached me from the depths of the niche. There followed a long, stubborn silence. I laid the second row of stones, the third row, the fourth - I heard the desperate rattling of a chain. This ringing lasted several minutes; I stopped working and sat down on the bones to enjoy these sounds more fully. When the ringing died down, I took up the shovel again and, without stopping for a minute, finished laying the fifth, sixth and seventh rows. I had already built the wall almost level with my chest. He paused again, took the torch and directed its light at the figure standing in the niche.

Such loud, piercing screams began to escape from Fortunato’s larynx that I instantly jumped back. For several moments I hesitated and trembled all over. I drew my rapier and began to move inside the niche, but then a thought flashed through my head that immediately calmed me down. I felt with my hand the solid material from which the catacombs were built, and was convinced that there was nothing to fear. I went up to the wall again and began to respond with screams to the screams of the unfortunate man. I responded to these groans and cries, I echoed them, and finally positively surpassed them with the strength and volume of my voice. And then Fortunato’s screams died down.

It was midnight and my work was nearing its end. I laid the eighth, ninth and tenth rows, all that remained was to find and insert just a stone. I lifted it from the ground with effort and stuck it halfway into the place intended for it. But then such a dull, terrible laughter came from the niche that the hair on my head stood on end. This laughter gave way to pitiful sounds, in which it was difficult to recognize the former voice of the noble Fortunato.

- Ha-ha-ha! Hee hee hee! Great joke! Excellent joke! How we will laugh at all this later in the palazzo. Hee hee! How we will laugh while drinking wine. Hee hee!

- Amontillado! - I said.

- Hee-hee-hee! Exactly, Amontillado! But it seems it’s already too late... Signora Fortunato and the others are probably waiting for us in the palazzo. Let's go back soon.

“Yes,” I said, “we’ll be back soon!”

- For God's sake, Montresor!

“Yes,” I repeated, “for God’s sake!”

I waited in vain for an answer. Beginning to lose patience, I called out loudly:

- Fortunato!

No answer. I shouted again:

- Fortunato!

And again no answer. I stuck the torch into the hole remaining in the new masonry and dropped it inside the niche. In response, the sound of bells was heard. I began to feel uneasy: probably the dampness of the catacombs was beginning to affect me. I hastened to finish my work, laid the last stone and strengthened it well. In front of the newly erected wall, I piled up a shaft of human bones.

Since then they have never been disturbed by a human hand. In pace requiescat.

. "None shall touch me with impunity" is a royal Scottish motto historically used by the Kingdom of Scotland on the royal coat of arms of Scotland.

Requiescat in pace (“May he rest in peace”) is a Latin phrase often found as the abbreviation “RIP” or “R.” I.P." on tombstones, death notices, and when mentioning the recently deceased.

An epidemic has begun in the country. Blood suddenly began to flow from the pores and people died. The disease was given the name "Red Death". The prince of this state, Prospero, gathered all his associates and took refuge in one of the monasteries. There they could not be afraid of illness and had fun for their own pleasure. In the fifth or sixth month, the prince held a masquerade ball. After twelve, a new mummer appeared. His mask depicted a corpse, he personified the Red Death. Noticing him, the prince was horrified. He ordered the mummer to be hanged. No one dared to raise a hand against the stranger, and the mask began to calmly approach the prince. He, with a dagger in his hands, rushed at the mask. But as soon as this strange guest looked at him, the prince fell dead.

When the guests grabbed the stranger, it turned out that there was nothing under the mask. It was the Red Death itself. One by one, she soon overtook all the guests.

I have prepared a retelling for you Strange

Effective preparation for the Unified State Exam (all subjects) - start preparing

Updated: 2011-10-04

Attention!
If you notice an error or typo, highlight the text and click Ctrl+Enter.
By doing so, you will provide invaluable benefit to the project and other readers.

Thank you for your attention.

Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 October 7, 1849) was an American writer, poet, literary critic and editor, a representative of American romanticism, the forerunner of symbolism and decadence. He received the greatest fame for his “dark” stories (he was one of the first American writers to create his works in the form of short stories). Creator of the modern detective form. The work of Edgar Allan Poe contributed to the emergence of the science fiction genre.

Literary creativity Poe's work was influenced by romanticism, which was already completing its path in the West. “Gloomy fantasy, which was gradually disappearing from European literature, flared up once again in an original and bright way in terrible stories. But that was the epilogue of romanticism” (Fritsche). Poe's work was strongly influenced by the English and German romantics, especially Hoffmann; he is related to the ominously gloomy shade of Hoffmann’s fantasies, although he declared himself: “The horror of my stories is not from Germany, but from the soul.” Hoffmann’s words: “Life is a crazy nightmare that haunts us until it finally throws us into the arms of death” express the main idea of ​​Poe’s “scary stories”, an idea that, together with the peculiar style of its expression, was born in Poe’s first stories and only deepened , was processed with great skill in his subsequent artistic work. Evaluation of creativity The originality of Poe's style did not find followers in America. At the same time, Poe’s work was reflected in the poetry of the French symbolist Baudelaire, who translated Poe, introduced him to Europe, and from here begins Poe’s influence on the literature of decadence and symbolism.

Plot: A terrible disease called the Red Death is ravaging the country. Prince Prospero did not want to die from illness, so he gathered a thousand of his entourage and took refuge in a remote, isolated monastery. The prince and his entourage walled up all the entrances and exits and planned to live there until the illness ended. Outside the walls of the monastery, the merciless Red Death reigned, which killed everyone who remained under the sky, but everything was fine in the monastery. It had a suite of seven large rooms. No one dared to enter the seventh room with black walls and blood-red windows, it was very creepy there, the light shining through the windows was bright crimson, the hourly chiming of the giant clock was terrifying. After six months of sitting in the monastery, the prince organized a grandiose masquerade ball. Suddenly a new mummer appeared at the festival, wearing a cloak spattered with blood and a mask of a corpse. He gave himself a resemblance to the Red Death. The enraged prince ordered him to be detained and hanged in the morning. However, he calmly walked through the enfilade into the black room. The prince took the dagger and set off in pursuit, but at the threshold of the black room the stranger suddenly turned around and looked at the prince. Prospero screamed and died. The courtiers grabbed the stranger, but realized that there was nothing under his clothes. It was the Red Death itself. People began to fall and die, no one was saved and darkness, death and the Red Death reigned over everything.

The story was very popular in the era of symbolism, including in Russia. The image of the red jester in Andrei Bely’s novel “Petersburg” goes back to this text by Poe. One of the chapters in the first volume of his autobiography bears the title “The Mask of the Red Death”. In Andrew Webber's musical The Phantom of the Opera, there is an obvious reference to Poe's story at the beginning of the second act. The Phantom, appearing in the costume of the Red Death, disrupts a grand masquerade at the Opera House. Fred Saberhagen's story "Masquerade at Redshift" is structured in clear analogy with Poe's story. In Dan Simmons' novel The Terror, the characters organize a carnival on New Year's Eve from 1847 to 1848, modeled after Prospero's feast described by Poe. At the end of the carnival, the monster of Terror appeared at the celebration - a huge polar bear (“White Death”), which killed many members of the team. The song "Mask of the Red Death" by the Russian rap team Triad accurately describes the plot of the story.

The seventh room was covered in black velvet: black draperies came down from the very ceiling and fell in heavy folds onto a carpet of the same black velvet. And only in this room the windows differed from the upholstery: they were bright crimson - the color of blood. In none of the seven rooms, among the numerous golden decorations scattered everywhere and even hanging down from the ceiling, were there visible any chandeliers or candelabra - neither candles nor lamps illuminated the rooms: on the gallery surrounding the enfilade, opposite each window stood a massive tripod with a flaming brazier, and the lights, penetrating through the glass, flooded the chambers with colored rays, causing everything around to take on some kind of ghostly, fantastic appearance. But in the western, black room, the light streaming through the blood-red glass and falling on the dark curtains seemed especially mysterious and distorted the faces of those present so wildly that only a few of the guests dared to cross its threshold. And in this room, against the western wall, there was a giant ebony clock. Their heavy pendulum swung from side to side with a monotonous muffled ringing, and when the minute hand completed its revolution and the time came for the clock to strike, a clear and loud sound burst out of their copper lungs, soulful and surprisingly musical, but so unusual in strength and timbre that the orchestra members were forced to stop every hour to listen to him.

In the most reckless heart there are strings that cannot be touched without causing them to tremble. The most desperate people, those who are ready to joke with life and death, have something that they do not allow themselves to laugh at. It seemed that at that moment everyone present felt how unfunny and inappropriate the alien’s outfit and manners were. The guest was tall, gaunt, and wrapped from head to toe in a shroud. The mask that hid his face so accurately reproduced the frozen features of the corpse that even the closest and most meticulous gaze would have difficulty detecting the deception. However, this would not have embarrassed the mad gang, and perhaps even would have aroused approval. But the joker dared to make himself resemble the Red Death. His clothes were spattered with blood, and a crimson horror appeared on his forehead and all over his face.

Edgar Allan Poe is one of my favorite writers. “The Masque of the Red Death” is perhaps my favorite story of his. You cannot escape from Doom and Death. The Red Death accepted Prospero's challenge and, in incredible ways, managed to penetrate the monastery. Prospero did wrong by leaving people outside the gates to die. He wanted to outwit the Red Death, but, as expected, he failed. This was the act of a vile person who was not ready to be completely with his people, to fight the illness of the kingdom. People died, and the prince had fun with his subjects. Stupid and vile Prospero got what he deserved.