Julian Hawthorne

The Devil’s Christmas

Salem, Massachusetts-born Julian Hawthorne (1846-1934) was the son of author Nathaniel Hawthorne. Satan had long haunted American Christmases, from his appearance in Spanish colonial performances of “Los Pastores,” to Cotton Mather’s belief that devils would have a “merry meeting” with women guilty of witchcraft on that day, and through newspapers’ Christmas poems of the 18th century that would mention him in ways similar to the carols “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” and “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” In this story, the text of which is taken from the Christmas Day, 1885 issue of the Norfolk Virginian, the title character mirrors the appearance of those around him, in this case as a man of high society—not unlike how he would appear in Marie Corelli’s The Sorrows of Satan (1895).

About the middle of December, I received a card from Mrs. Farasay inviting me to attend the Christmas celebrations at her home on the 24th of December; and at the bottom of the card were written the words “To meet the Prince.” Though it did not occur to me at the moment who this prince was—whether English, French, Russian or African—I was confident, from the well known reputation of the hostess, that he would surely be a personage well worth meeting. Mrs. Farasay entertains only the best people and has never been known to make a social mistake. Indeed, had I enjoyed the distinction of being her only guest, I should have been certain of meeting all the purest aristocratic element of society, concentrated, as it were, in her single affluent personality.

It is needless to add, however, that I was not called upon to pay her the above tribute of appreciation. When I arrived at her superb mansion on the avenue, I found it already thronged with an assemblage of beauty, celebrity and fashion such as it has seldom been my lot to encounter. The rooms were beautifully decorated. The staircase, a broad and gradual ascent from the great entrance hall, was so embanked and canopied with flowers that one seemed to be climbing a floral mountain. The languorous perfume of these myriad sweet blossoms was translated, as it were, into audible harmony by the strains of music which rose and fell and found their way everywhere, though their source was ever hidden. The cornices of the reception rooms were traced out with English holly, and drooping festoons of mistletoe depended from each lofty doorway, and seemed to impart a brighter tint of beauty to the cheeks and lips of the fair women and maidens who passed beneath, and to kindle a more ardent sparkle in the eyes of the gallant cavaliers who attended them. Ah, what warm and glowing reminiscences do those cool green leaves and pale white berries conjure up! Upon the walls crosses were designed in the undying verdure of the pine, and in the dining hall a huge Christmas tree extended its level boughs at the head of the table, lustrous with the soft light of a thousand aromatic tapers and sparkling with the gold and color of innumerable bonbonnieres and costly sweetmeats. And everywhere, thronging yet not crowding, were the splendor and the delicacy of the silk and lace of ladies’ dresses and the gleam of jewels on their white necks and lovely arms, and the murmur of voices and tinkle of light laughter, forming an undertone to the music of the unseen instruments. The whole sumptuous scene was an epitome of the triumphs of civilization, refinement and of that mastery of mortal conditions which is called wealth. It causes the complaint of misery and the squalor of poverty to seem like a gross and grotesque illusion, foisted upon our senses by the deception of some delirious dream. It was the stately and tacit refutation of the shrieks of self styled reformers and the blatant arguments of anarchists; for when and where has human nature ever risen, or can it ever rise, to a greater height of power and felicity than was represented here?

In the midst of these agreeable reflections I found myself face to face with my hostess, who stood like a queen worthy to reign over such an empire. Mrs. Farasay’s position at the head of the best society is so assured that one fancies she must have occupied it ever since society began; and yet, such is the youthful loveliness of her appearance, that a person meeting her for the first time would imagine her to be a star that had just begun to illuminate the social firmament. In this respect she might be said to represent society itself, whose charm is out of all relation with the passage of stars, and will appear to our great grandchildren no less seductive than it did to our great grandparents. But I do not know that I can more fully express my sense of Mrs. Farasay’s merit than by saying that she was better fitted than any other woman there to appear beside the figure who stood at her right hand and shared with her the homage of the assembly. I recognized the Prince as soon as I set eyes on him; although, among the many points in which he is remarkable, in none is he more so than in the difference of his aspect at different times. He is never out of keeping with the group in which, for the time being, he finds himself; or, rather, he seems to sum up in himself the predominant characteristics of his immediate associates, to show the pure type of which they are the more or less complete illustrations. And never in my experience had I found his Highness more thoroughly himself, more royally at home, than he was here. I attribute this chameleon-like quality (as it might be termed) less to any deliberate intention on his part than to that exquisite involuntary sympathy which is fundamental in his nature. He enters so cordially into the life and interests of those who surround him as to render himself the mirror of their ruling traits. Of course, however, the distinction and authority which are innate in him make it impossible, under whatever disguise, to mistake him for another, and I allude to this peculiarity of his merely as affording an additional explanation of the extraordinary popularity he has always enjoyed among the elite of this world.

“I see you need no introduction to our guest of the evening,” said my hostess, when I had offered my compliments. “Indeed, I tell the Prince that even his own principality can scarcely contain friends more intelligently loyal than many who have assembled to do him honor here.”

“The season and the place are alike congenial to me,” observed his Highness graciously. “The season of Christmas and the social center of the American Republic. It is impossible, when I contemplate a scene like this, not to feel that I have not lived altogether in vain!”

I was both surprised and touched by this avowal, which exemplified the generous nobility of the royal nature. For surely, the land of civil and religious liberty and the great anniversary of Christendom might not, at the first blush, be thought conducive to the moral tranquillity of a person of the Prince’s supposed views. At this moment I caught sight of Father Ecks, a divine of extreme orthodox tendencies, who was standing at Mrs. Farasay’s left. He was reputed to be her religious adviser, and was an old and valued friend of my own. I approached him and grasped his hand. “You remind me of the apple of gold in the picture of silver,” I remarked.

“We are all gold together,” he returned, laughing pleasantly.

“How is business?” I asked.

“The scene before you is a more eloquent answer to that question than I could give,” was his answer. “Positively, I feel at times as if my office were little more than a sinecure! It is the realization of my ideal—the church and the world reflecting each other so closely as to be practically indistinguishable. Whether as a man, a priest or a Christian I am equally content.”

“Is it the church or the world which has made the greater advance?” I inquired.

“They are becoming more and more merged in each other. There never was any radical quarrel between them; mutual misunderstandings have been at the bottom of all their differences. The increasing light of intelligence, penetrating the dark caverns of error and ignorance, have shown or are showing the superficiality of all disagreements. Believe me, my dear sir, the day is not far distant—it is even now at hand—when the religious enthusiast and the so-called devotee of fashion shall breathe one creed and follow one ideal.”

“How blessed a consummation!” I exclaimed fervently. “And is it true, then, that the arch enemy of human perfection is forever conquered?”

“A word in your ear!” replied the father, beckoning me to his side. “Our only real enemy has been a prejudice of the imagination, which distorts friendship into the likeness of hostility. The assurance of peace lies in the fact that he whom we thought our foe is in reality our ally. It is not a question of victory but of reconciliation. If I might indulge in a paradox I would say that we have been fighting the air all this while, for the Prince of the powers of the air has never been at heart opposed to us.”

“I comprehend; evil is undeveloped good, or good is undeveloped evil, or both. But, though I am prepared for the widest tolerance on the part of his Highness, here, I must confess that I was a little surprised to find him joining so amiably in our celebration of this particular day, of all others. It seems an instance of magnanimity almost excessive.”

“Ah! did you but know him as I do, you would marvel no longer!” returned the good father, piously. “But I will not presume to interpret him. Possibly an occasion may present itself for him to define his position in his own words.”

The tale of guests was by this time complete, and the melodious notes of a silver trumpet, echoing through the splendid rooms, apprised us that dancing was about to begin. Mrs. Farasay gave her hand to the Prince to lead the first figure. In receiving it the clasp of his Highness’ glove caught in the delicate chain which held his eyeglass, and it dropped to the ground. He did not notice the accident; but I picked the eyeglass up, and was about to restore it to him when he moved out of my reach, and I was obliged to defer the execution of my purpose to another opportunity. Meanwhile, not being myself a dancer, I stepped aside into the deep embrasure of one of the windows.

The curtain happened to be drawn aside, and the snow-­covered street was visible. The last carriage had departed, and the stately thoroughfare extended, silent and deserted, before me. The light of electric lamps shone down upon it with a frigid and ghastly brilliancy, which made the stars, twinkling in the sky overhead, seem more distant and unattainable than ever. Presently the stooping and decrepit form of an old woman appeared, coming slowly and with difficulty along the sidewalk. She wore a dingy cloak, which was evidently an incomplete protection against the piercing chill of the Winter night, while her head was bare, save for the gray locks which fluttered disorderly in the breeze. When she arrived opposite the window from which I was gazing down at her, she stopped, and, raising her head, stared earnestly up at the great edifice. Her features, thus revealed, were worn and aged, and bore the marks of deep suffering and anguish; but there was something about them which, for a moment, strangely recalled to my mind another face, beautiful, calm, alluring, young, which was as widely known and celebrated in the highest circles of the city as that of this old hag was ignored and despised. The resemblance, far-fetched and doubtless imaginary though it was, perplexed and offended me, seeming, as it did, to imply some human connection, however slight, between our gracious hostess and this miserable vagabond; and it was with a feeling almost of personal irritation that I turned away, and appeased my fretted sensibilities with the gorgeous spectacle of loveliness and luxury which filled the noble dancing saloon from brim to brim.

The rhythmical movement of the swaying groups, keeping time to the rich melody of flute, violin and horn; the flash of diamond and the sweep of silken trains; the mellow light and fragrant warmth illuminating and vivifying all, soon drove from my memory the haggard specter of the street. I marked where, conspicuous and eminent above all the rest, the hostess and her Prince led the revels; and I realized, with inward satisfaction, that happiness and prosperity are the only true life; want and misery are but a negation and a shadow. Thus musing, and toying with the Prince’s eyeglass, which I still held in my hand, it chanced that, in pure absent mindedness, I raised it to my eyes.

No sooner was it fixed in its place than the voluptuous scene before me underwent—or seemed to undergo—a monstrous transformation. The rose-embowered hall assumed the appearance of a savage glade in the mid heart of a wild and shaggy forest. The subtle music changed to the crazy moan of the winds and the long howl of beasts of prey. And the guests, one and all, instead of the graceful bearing and comely presence of a moment before, put on the aspect of a mad crew of grisly creatures, frantically jigging to an infernal tune that was beaten out by the quick throbbings of their own evil hearts. Round and round, forward and backward, they whirled and flew, mowing and gibbering in ghastly merriment, and all making obeisance, as they passed, to the fearful Prince and Princess of the carnival. But from these last, after one glance, I was fain to turn away my eyes, or the spectacle would have blasted them. Language of human beings cannot portray the horror investing the figures of those two. And yet—such was the hideous spell of his Highness’ eyeglasses—that pair aped the gestures and reproduced, as in loathsome parody, the linea­ments of the dainty lady and the royal guest in whose honor we were gathered together!

With a groan I staggered back against the window, clasping my hands over my face. As I did so the eyeglasses dropped from my eyes.

“Well, well! here is a singular proceeding,” exclaimed the voice of my friend, Father Ecks, laughing good humoredly. “To think of a man like you taking a nap, of all times and places in the world, at such a time and place as this! Wake up, my dear friend, and be one of us again. Here is the Prince asking for you; and, by the way, do you happen to have seen his eyeglasses?”

Shrinkingly I raised my head and stared about me. The terrible vision of the witch’s Sabbath had vanished. Here again were the swelling music, the flowers, the perfume and the splendid company. Had I indeed been dreaming? It must be so.

“It must have been the fragrance of the roses,” I muttered, trying to recover myself. “I am peculiarly susceptible to odors.”

“Nothing more probable—and here are the eyeglasses,” added the amiable father, picking them up. “Come, they are going to the dining hall, and the Prince particularly desires that you should sit next to him.”

So saying, he began to thread his way through the courteous throng, and I followed him, my brain still haunted by tangled reminiscences of my hateful dream. Even the sanctified figure of good Father Ecks himself unaccountably brought to my memory one of the most active and diabolical of the infernal crew. But—down with such thoughts! They were an outrage on good breeding and an insult to common sense. Was Mrs. Farasay’s home a haunted forest? Were the friendly and fashionable faces I saw around me those of witches and demons? With a laugh at my own absurdity, I put to flight my weaknesses and took my place beside the Prince with an air of confidence and composure.

It so chanced that his Highness was, at that moment, just on the point of rising to respond to the toast of “The Guest of the Evening.”

“My friends,” he began, lifting himself to the height of his commanding figure and embracing in a glance the eager array of upturned faces, “that we are friends, with all that friendship implies, is due in no small measure to the historic episode whose chiefest festival we celebrate to-night. Into the history of the last two thousand years I will not enter here. It is a history of suffering and of error, but also of solid and steady progress. The causes which have wrought toward the present consummation have been often misconceived and perverted and their issue thereby delayed; but they were potent still and they have at last triumphed over adverse conditions. The consciousness of having been, to the extent of my humble capacity, instrumental in this result is to me the crowning satisfaction of my career. In Christianity, little as your forefathers may have suspected it, I recognized my opportunity, and I may add without egotism that it was an opportunity which I have not failed to cultivate. The horizon has seemed dark at times; there have been seasons when hope appeared naught but folly; but throughout all, my friends, I have held fast to my faith in man. I have never surrendered my conviction that his instincts were more potent and persistent than his reasonings; that what he was would finally prevail over what he could be taught. Man—vilely as he has been misrepresented, cruelly as he has been misled—man has in him an innate sense of respectability which nothing can entirely extirpate. It has brought him safely though all his vicissitudes and has culminated in the brilliant gathering which surrounds this hospitable board to-night. You are truly the elect, and every secret pulsation of your hearts that convinces you of your moral and mental superiority, and of the assured distinction of your future destiny, is a direct aid and encouragement to me in my constant effort toward human emancipation. Other struggles, other reverses may perhaps yet lie before me, but, if ever my purpose falters or my courage quails, I shall remember you as I behold you now, and gather fresh strength and heart from the recollection.”

As he said the last words his Highness put on his eyeglasses, which Father Ecks had a minute before slipped into his hand. Recalling (as I could not help doing) the sinister effect which these same glasses had apparently produced upon my own vision, I looked with some interest to discover whether the Prince were similarly affected; but the happy serenity of his expression and the kindly manner in which he bowed his acknowledgements of the applause resounded through the room at the conclusion of his little speech, persuaded me that my odd experience, whatever else its origin might be, was clearly not to be charged to the royal spectacles. No doubt Father Ecks was right, and I had merely fallen asleep and had an ugly dream.

The interest aroused by the Prince’s remarks had prevented most of the guests from observing—what had, nevertheless, not escaped my own notice—that Mrs. Farasay had been summoned from the room almost at the opening of his harangue. A servant, with a troubled expression on his features, had made his way to her side and whispered something in her ear that had caused her to start and change color, and also to slip from the table as quietly as she might. Her absence now began to be noted; but the Prince, with thoughtful tact, gave the conversation an entertaining and anecdotal turn, and speedily we were all laughing and chatting, in temporary forgetfulness of her unexplained departure.

This happy state of things was suddenly disturbed, however, by a loud shriek from one of the ladies, and immediately afterward she fainted, amid the greatest commotion. Upon examination a great clot of blood was found upon her otherwise immaculate bosom. While we were speculating as to how it got there I happened to glance up toward one of the chandeliers which depended from the ceilings and was startled to observe a thin red stream trickling down it and falling from its lowest pendant to the floor. A wild panic and confusion ensued upon this discovery and a rush was made for the doors, causing a jam, in which, I fear, many persons were injured. Thus unexpectedly was the graceful harmony of a moment before changed into frantic riot and disorder. The table, with its golden salvers and crystal goblets, was overturned; the gigantic Christmas tree toppled to the ground and at once became a mass of flames; the festoons of flowers were torn from the walls, and, almost in less time than it takes to tell it, the whole superb house, so lately the shrine of luxury and refinement, was a howling pit of destruction, filled with maddened and struggling shapes and choked with smoke and fire.

Of all the fair company, the Prince and Father Ecks alone retained their self possession. The former exchanged a glance with the latter, and they hastened up stairs, whither I, impelled by an awful fascination, followed them. Arrived at the floor above, they turned to the right, and the Prince threw open a door leading into Mrs. Farasay’s bedroom. He and the father entered, but I paused upon the threshold.

Mrs. Farasay was standing beside the body of an aged woman, who was stretched on the ground dead, with a knife buried in her heart. Her gray hair, her ragged black cloak and the contour of her haggard and bloodless features told me at a glance who she was; nor was it possible, in that moment of lurid enlightenment, to doubt her relationship to the murderess who hovered over her. As the Prince entered, Mrs. Farasay raised her eyes, and they met his in a glare of terror and despair.

“Come, there is no time to lose!” said he, in a harsh voice of command. “My carriage is waiting for you. Come!”

“Oh, my mother!” said she, in a sighing voice, and then she laughed.

The Prince wrapped his dark cloak around her, caught her up in his arms and was gone, and Father Ecks went with him. They seemed to vanish in smoke, and then I heard the rumble of wheels. But when I myself reached the open air there was no trace of them to be seen, and the church bells were ringing in the Christmas morn.

 

 

 

 

 

BOY SANTA CLAUS DYING

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Schoolmates See Lad a Mass of Flames at Christmas Celebration—Mother Is Burned.

 

HUNTINGTON, IND., Dec. 22. (Spl.)—“I won’t play Santa Claus any more,” were the last words of Fred Falck, 8, as he lost consciousness, while the flames of a blazing Santa Claus outfit were still burning over his body in the Central School Building late yesterday, during the annual Christmas exercises of the school.

The lad, dressed in a suit of white cotton, was distributing presents from a Christmas tree to his fellow-schoolmates, when the cotton became ignited from a lighted candle.

Before the fire could be extinguished the boy was fatally burned, and death is expected.

The mother was a guest and assisted in smothering the fire, herself sustaining severe burns.

Kentucky Post, December 26, 1906