O. Henry's Tussle with the Devil

It was the hour when souls simply cling to their bodies by the merest thread when I met His Satanic Majesty. 

He is well-named, for he is majestic, in every sense of the word, majestic of mien, majestic of gesture, of expression and a god to look upon. 

He is a deceptive person, for one meeting him casually would think he was one of the great and good men of the day—abroad on errands of mercy and with kindness in his heart for all humanity. So carefully does he conceal his identity that he resembles most of mankind who are one person to themselves and quite another to the world of men. 

We met. He knew me, but I had not yet had the pleasure of knowing this majestic lord—or thought I had not—and so was flattered when he accosted me and made me welcome. 

I was told you were coming, and so came to meet you, he said, with a smile of geniality. We hoped to have greeted you earlier.

Just a minute, I said. Who are you? Who told you I was coming?

Making a sweeping gesture and ignoring my questions, he continued— 

Our land is fair—as you see—but there are many wonders, which I desire to show you. Wonders, which are unheard of—not even dreamt of—and which will make you desire to remain among us, I feel confident.

With this, my arm was taken in a friendly fashion and we proceeded up an avenue lined with trees perfect in form and foliage—passed handsome houses with playing fountains, flowers and birds in abundance. 

With a magnificent gesture, he swept all this out of the way. The homes of our servants. We enter now the domains of those who rule and where we hope you will abide.

The turn of the street brought us to an estate situated on the crest of a magnificent mountain. Winding roads of dazzling whiteness and smoothness led through a garden of flowers and wonderful trees. Running streams made music and the song of birds—with brilliant plumage. 

With no word spoken—but many implied by gesture and nod—we reached the mansion. Transparent, the walls seemed, the air heavy with perfume. It was a palace of dreams, resting in the hollow of my hand. 

With a smile of winning sweetness, he said—

This is yours. Will you rest?

Mine! For what? I exclaimed. 

Do you give palaces like this to all your visitors?

Not to all, he answered; only to our favoured ones.

Why am I so favoured, then? What have I done to bring me this?

Nothing, he answered, as yet, but we have hopes of great things from you. We expect you will be of great benefit to us; will aid us in promoting our cause.

And how? I queried. 

Come, let us sit and sup and we will talk it over.

Leading me gently forward, we entered a banqueting hall, where costly viands and sparkling wines reposed among flowers, and gold and silver, and ruby and diamond, sapphire and emerald decked each goblet—while behind our places were fair women who smiled and breathed perfume upon the air. 

Too dazed to remonstrate, I took my place and unconscious of what I did, sipped my wine from its jewelled goblet. 

 Lifting his wine, he said—To our better acquaintance—our Brotherhood, I hope.

To our better acquaintance, certainly—but what do you mean by Brotherhood?

That I will explain. In this mountain fastness, there is a secret abode, which only the elect can enter and where the members set in motion great events and accomplish great deeds. We have need of one like you to assist us.

What do you feel I can do? I asked. My talents are slight. I do not comprehend my selection.

Ah; that is not to be wondered at for you have not correctly gauged your talents and ability.

Do you realise that you have the greatest talent ever known—in one direction?

What! I gasped. 

Quite true! I will tell you. 

In the beginning, you were presented by lesser gods with a talent for the love of everything, with love for the pure, for the truth, for the beautiful. You aspired to be one of the unknown workers for humanity—to create beauty, in poem and song; to weave for them music which would make life an ecstasy. 

To scatter happiness was your ambition. Jealousy was unknown to you, and envy was a word you never even thought of. 

Kindness was your password in the realm from which you came, but we, who were observing you, recognised a power much greater than you knew—a power to work results magical in their effect— and so we came near you and sought to make your better acquaintance. 

You were a shy bird, difficult to catch, however, and it took us many aeons of time before we finally won your confidence.

What was this great ability? I interrupted. 

You wish to know? That is well, for I see we shall be able to work more harmoniously if your interest is aroused, he replied. I will tell you. It was—but why should I say it was, rather, it is still the great gift you possess and which we desire to have you give to us in all its fullness. Let us review a bit what use you made of it. 

First, you were disappointed in the love of the woman whom you desired, and so began its development—until love for man or woman had no place in your heart. 

Then commenced your clear vision, which showed you the evil which was in all minds and hearts and you recognised no one could be trusted. Ultimately, you nearly perfected that branch of your gift and so had an honoured seat at our council table, and we desire you again to take your place at its head.

But why? I interrupted, did I lose that exalted seat?

Alas; he answered, you went back to your old habits. An animal was the cause of your downfall—a mongrel cur! 

You interest me, I said. Explain how that occurred.

You were in a forsaken village, having lost your way and wandered there, and without food. Little by little, your strength left you and you lay down under a tree, with all hope abandoned. A rustle in the dead grass aroused you and presently a tiny, mangy dog crept up and licked your hand. 

The relief from the loneliness was so great that you foolishly took the cur in your arms.

Foolishly! I exclaimed.

Yes, foolishly, for that was the beginning of your loss of power. True, the animal led you out to safety and warmth, eventually. But what a seed was sown! 

Where before the harvest was well-nigh perfect, it now had the weeds of Pity and Gratitude. So do the mighty fall! 

That was a fatal sowing and reaping for you, for it even affected your view of men. You commenced seeing in them bits of character before unseen. Such useless things as Consideration, Love and Pity!

Your habits, too, were affected by this poisonous weed. Where before you had been perfect in all ways vile, you now commenced to give up some of the most brilliant jewels—betrayal of women—the excitement and joy of perfect and exhilarating wines. Why! you even went so low as to prefer sparkling waters from Nature's sources.

Holding my jewelled goblet high, I laughed and said—To what depths can man sink!

Ah! I rejoice to see you agree with me. It is well. We shall succeed together admirably, I feel sure, he made answer. 

Then, drawing closer to me, Now to our desires and agreement.

By all means, I replied. I am eager to hear your plan. For, certainly, if this domain is part of the reward, it interests me.

Good! That is better, he replied.

When you first left our abode and joined with others, who had contrary beliefs, we felt it was final— but as we watched and studied your soul—for you know, of course, souls are clearly visible to us— and saw there was within it, still, the desire to continue as one of us, I was given the task of keeping alive that seed, and adding to its force, so that in time a bountiful harvest might repay us. 

We feel that time has arrived. 

As I told you, this palace, with all it contains, its vault of priceless gems—such as are on your goblet, these fair women, and hundreds like them, are yours. Any honour you feel you desire shall be granted, and you shall be the lord of whatsoever you desire to possess.

At this, I glanced around the hall. 

Looked at the smiling faces—slender, voluptuous forms—at the sparkling gems—at the vista which was spread before me through the open windows—and then I mused upon what I could possess in addition—all honours whatsoever I desired. Coming back, finally, to a study of His Majesty's face, I found his eyes fixed upon me.

Will you accept? he asked. 

That is a little mystery, too, of yours, is it not? You ask if I will accept all that counts in the world, but you have not yet told me what I am to do for it all. Tell me that side of the mystery, I replied. 

Only a simple thing! 

Renew your association with us and take the leadership of the band which is ready to go forth and sow broadcast the seeds which are so much craved by the world. The seeds of Hate, of Malice, of Licentiousness, of Cruelty. 

Help us to rid the world of gaiety which is simple and wholesome. Help us to give them a greater excitement. Let us arouse the idea of hunting within their breasts—but children for game—not birds, which are only beautiful and give song, that would be tame sport! 

Take the lead and aid us to sow Revenge broadcast.

Is that all? I queried. 

All for the present, he answered.

Later, new things can be brought to a successful issue, if you desire. But that will satisfy our Brotherhood for the present.

Let us drink to our unity, he said, raising high his glass and looking with flashing eyes into mine.

I rose to my feet, goblet high. 

To our Brotherhood! I shouted;

May it be annihilated forever! 

O. Henry's Ghost

MY TUSSLE WITH THE DEVIL AND  OTHER STORIES, O. HENRY'S GHOST, I. M. Y. COMPANY, NEW YORK, 1918

A cross to bear

We are ever on the verge of despair; a touch, a thought only, and we are in its midst; it is incessantly welling up from the depth of our own heart, ready to engulf us. The mind at times resists with a frenzied power, but only to sink back in defeat. And the worst of it is that I am struggling as it were on both sides, offering agonised resistance while turning tooth and nail against myself in maddest hatred.

How long these fits may last I cannot tell; it is not with us as with you, that exhausted nature herself yields the remedy. There is no nature here, but only existence.

But the paroxysm ceases. There seems to be a climax of fury; when I have beaten myself out, so to speak, there is a lull.

But sometimes—ah! this is the deepest experience, would I could say the most precious! but that is more than hell admits of—sometimes, as the waves of madness sink away, there rises a vision to my soul, wondrous and holy, even the image of the Crucified One. And there is a sudden calm, despair seems drowned, and all is still. Not that suffering ceases, but an all-enfolding sense of loss has swallowed up the rest. I stand accused—I hear a voice crying—It is thou, thou who broughtst Him to the cursed tree!

Did I say vision? Nay, the very word is too much. I was a prey to longing, but I dare not delude myself; such seeing is not for me. The hungry spirit imagined for a moment—I see the Cross—the thorn-crowned figure—I look—and it is gone! Yet I seem to feel it present if only I could pierce the hiding darkness. I gaze and gaze, but tenfold night enwraps the longing soul.

Him who died I see not, but the Cross keeps dawning forth and receding. Beyond it I get not. I once knew the story, but it is gone, gone, and the more I try to remember, the greater seems the blank. Tell me, ought I to despair, ought I to rejoice? I see a Cross truly, though an empty one! Did He not die on the Cross? Why should it keep rising before me? Is it for punishment? Is it for hope? Was not there something about taking up the Cross and following?

Happy, thrice happy, O men and women, having a cross to bear! Murmur not, but bear it willingly, lest the time come when ye long for it and find it an empty vision, the very burden gone.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Thou art mine!

Fear not, for I have redeemed thee—thou art mine!

Can your heart even be troubled?

Feel the power of the Cross; think of it as a symbol. When troubled, call its thought to mind and restore quiet. It seems marvellous, but it is natural after all, for do we not know that love for us brought Him to the Cross?

Deepest rest to the last

Unrest often fills my soul. It must be so while we are in this life. The heart of man will be battling for deepest rest to the last.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

I know it. I have found it so

We have what is better than the Cross to help you. His own dear name. Whatever trouble may come to you, you need but whisper that name, and peace straightaway flows down upon you. His own peace, so full of healing—surely it is blessed to call on Him in all things! Have you tried it? It is so easy to turn to Him with all our griefs and failings. It needs but a word, a clinging to His name, and the blessing is given. 

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Thy will be done!

We ought to yield ourselves to Him entirely, believing that our Father knows best, else we cannot be His children.

Thy will, Lord, not mine!

Thy will, Lord, not mine!

Watch over your thoughts

Behold the growth of passion! It is but a passing thought perchance, moving the heart. Whence is it—who can tell? Whence is the sudden cloud darkening the fair heaven? and whence the electric spark? Your mind conceives and your heart unless you guard it will nurse the awful birth. The fiery influence shoots through your being. Your nerves tremble, your blood is aflame. And though quiet may be restored, there is that within you which at any moment may course through your veins afresh. For remember, if you had an ocean of the red stream of life, one drop of poison might vitiate it. Alas, it is more than a drop; the tempting thought has grown to a power of evil possessing you—a nature within your nature—wild, lawless, and leading you captive. Sin has taken root in your soul, innocent though it found you. How far it may take you God alone can tell.

Watch over your thoughts, then, lest they ruin your soul! Watch, I say, and stifle sin in its birth. It may be a small thing at first, but how awful is the growth, suffusing body and soul with poison, doubly dangerous for its seeming sweetness! Has it seized your heart—ah, fly to the Physician.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Is this not a holy example for all God's children?

We, too, have a path of sorrow to tread, many a trial to go through, but we, too, may have a foretaste of the joy to come, the perfect liberty promised, and it may help us to reach the end. Without this grace divine many a burdened soul might fail on the road, for life seems hard at times. Have a very full heart. Rejoice in your spirit. Join in the song to the glory of the Lamb!

Justice is the law of life

Justice is the law of life, be it in the world, or in heaven, or in hell; and every act of man, though it contain but a shadow of wrong, calls for atonement unless God Himself in His mercy will blot it out.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

I feel sore at heart

Little things make up the sum of good or evil in life.

An object of repugnance to everyone

I suppose every soul here [Hell] is forced to perform that journey once at least, and in so far it might not inaptly be called a pilgrimage, but to a frightful shrine. Whether it is on account of a certain inexplicable mania possessing us all sooner or later, or merely by dint of a dread attraction exercised by that awful place, I know not; but no one escapes the fate of going thither once, if not oftener. You know what a crowd is drawn by a public execution, and that people will assist at so dire a spectacle unless positively prohibited. It is strange! But what should you say if anyone by morbid attraction had a longing to watch his own execution? Something very like this takes place here.

You are aware by this time and must be so, apart from my inadequate account, that between this evil place and Paradise a great gulf is fixed. Great, I say, and would add frightful, but that words invented for earth's need are altogether unfit to describe that gulf. It is the home of Satan. Do you understand that? In the depth of that abyss, the quenchless fire is burning, forever tended by the devil and his host. How far away is it? I cannot tell; I think it is in the outmost limit of hell. How near one may approach it? Even at a distance of hundreds of miles one feels seized with giddiness and all the horrors of death, but one is drawn nevertheless. That one should ever escape it again seems marvellous. How wide the gulf is? When lit up by the radiance of Paradise, the eye at a leap seems to

carry you across, but I doubt not it may be likened to a shoreless ocean.

Light now is fast decreasing, swallowed up by the darkness rising afresh from the abyss. Do you expect me to describe to you that abode of terror? But I can no more depict it than I was able to give a true representation of Paradise. It is beyond human possibilities, and I am but human, even in hell. Yet one thing I may tell you; believe me, that more than one rich man is to be found by the awful pit, looking across to where they see the blessed poor in Abraham's bosom, stretching forth their arms too, and entreating for a drop of water to cool their tongue. But that first rich man of the gospel does not appear to be among them; there is a rumour that perchance he was saved.

Alas! I was among those begging rich, supplicating with all my soul, but no one—no one heard me. Despair urged me to fling myself into the awful gulf, that perchance I might lose myself amid the howling fiends of the bottomless pit. What power prevented me and eventually brought me back from the place, I know not. Is it possible that God in His mercy is yet keeping me?

I have returned then, dreading I shall be carried thither a second time. I must tell you more, though it be a subject of horror both to you and to me; but then all these revelations are fraught with horror, and these letters had better remain unread by those whose self-complacent tranquillity of mind dislikes being harassed.

As I returned shivering in every fibre, and conscious of the thought only of Satan and his angels, I all but fell into the arms of one coming towards me on his way to the gulf.

But was it a human being, this creature with mangled body and frightfully disfigured countenance?

A man indeed, his very appearance bespeaking his name—Judas Iscariot.

A piece of rope was round his neck, and in his hand, he carried thirty pieces of silver. The rope all but suffocates him, and the money burns his fingers; he keeps throwing it away, but it always returns to his grasp. I have heard that it may be absent awhile swelling some usurer's gains, but Judas before long finds it in his closed hand again, bearing the marks of blood. And then he is heard to groan, What is that to us? see thou to that!—a fruitless repentance, which is not repentance, eating away at his soul, and he spends himself in vain efforts to get behind someone and seize him by the neck.

What he intends by this is not quite clear, but people think he is anxious to find a charitable soul who will give him back the kiss he once gave to his Lord and Master, and thereby free him from those horrible pieces of silver. But the soul lives not in hell who would care to save him at the cost even of a kiss; he is an object of repugnance to everyone. I too burst away from him horrified.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Two selves in every man

There are two selves in every man, never at unity with one another, although theirs is a brotherhood closer than that of Castor and Pollux of old; striving continuously, not because love is wanting, but because contention is their very nature. That duality in man is the outcome of sin. If he could be saved from it, sin with all its consequences would cease to enthral him. And there is a release, as I found out in those darkened days. We wrestled without a hope of conciliation. There is not a more stiff-necked or inflexible being than what is called the better self. Not one iota would it yield, but I was to give up everything, should strip myself entirely to the death even of self. But I would not, and perhaps I could not.

Yes, I could, if I would! For presently, I perceived that we were not two but three; two warring, and a third one trying to mediate in earnest love. I could oppose the better self, but Him I dared not contradict. I felt it too plainly that He was right, and that through Him only I could be at peace with myself and begin a new life. I knew who He was, the one Mediator, not only between me and that other self, but between me and the righteous God—the only-begotten Son, once born in the flesh.

In those days, I was His prisoner. There was no escaping in the dark corner in which He faced me—the Good Shepherd had found the wandering sheep, His arms were about me, and He was ready to take me home. But the willingness was only on His side; I cared not, suffering Him with a negative endurance merely, and not wanting to be kept fast. There was something within me waiting but for opportunity to break away from the Shepherd's hold.

Nor was opportunity wanting; it is ever at hand when looked for by perversity. The evil one had nowise yielded his part in me, and required but little effort to assert it.

He invented an amusement that needed no light. One of my friends was his messenger, and I received him open-armed as a very liberator. Delightful pastime—that game of hazard—that could be played in the dark!

We played, my friend and I—no, the enemy and myself; for my companion was no other than the prince of darkness; the stakes—I knew it not then, but I know it now—being nothing less than my soul's salvation. With such an expert I could, of course, not compete; he won—I lost.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

One seeking me in sorrow

The parable of the Good Shepherd giving His life for the sheep, how simple it is, and how it speaks to the heart? And that love is not only for the flock as a whole, but for each individual sheep—ever leaving the ninety and nine to go after that which is gone astray. And how tenderly will He seek for it, and, if so be that He find it, carry it home rejoicing!

Yes, I feel it now, if I did not feel it then, that all through my sinful life there was One seeking me in sorrow and in hope, ay—and finding me again and again! But I would not stay in the fold, preferring my own dark ways to His watchful guidance. I would not, and lo, I am lost!

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Good heavens, what a farce!

I went to church the other day, not for the first time; but I have refrained from speaking about it hitherto for very shame's sake. Indeed, I would rather have kept away altogether, but one is forced to do a great deal here one would prefer to leave alone.

Be it known, then, that hell is not without a church establishment. We have everything, you see, yet nothing—nothing! You will understand, I cannot be speaking of the Church, in the true meaning of the word, that is why I add establishment—disestablishment would be as good a term—and of course, there is no such thing as a worshipping congregation here, or anything like divine service. I can only say we go to church. Good heavens, what a farce!

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

Hell is full of professing Christians

Hell is full of professing Christians. This may sound strange, but it is true nevertheless since all the thousands are here to whom Christianity in life was but an outward thing—a habit, or even a mask, hiding an unconverted heart; all those who, having heard the message of salvation, listened to it complacently, but never strove to make sure of it for themselves—merely playing with God's truth, as it were, falling away in the time of temptation. They are hungering and thirsting now for the word once despised, but it is passed away forever. They know it, for some of them have been at their hopeless endeavour for years and centuries now; but they cannot resist flocking to the would be churches, listening anxiously to ministers that cannot minister.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

In Hell

In hell, where everything is seen in its own true light, the passing of time, or rather time passed, assumes an awful significance; for truth and reality are upon us. It was time which, for us also, included the largess of life—the manifold blessings shed abroad by the hand of God. Time is past now, and hope has fled. Ay, we ourselves are thrust out of it, never to enter again; time for us has vanished, leaving existence behind.

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

What is being a Christian?

What is being a Christian? 

What should it be but having Christ in your heart?

So simple, and yet so great. Him alone I desire, and, having Him, I have father and mother, and all the world. He makes His abode with me, that in Him I may live and move, and have my being. He alone is my Saviour, my Lord, my all. Lord Christ, let me be true to thee until thou take me home!

Letters from Hell, L. W. J. S., Richard Bentley & Son, London, 1889

God Seeth Thee!

God seeth thee!