A Visit from the Devil-Saint Nikolai
Curator’s Commentary: It has been a long-held truth that the famous Christmas-time poem, A Visit from St. Nicholas (better known in common usage as The Night Before Christmas or Twas the Night Before Christmas) was written between 1805 and 1820, prior to its anonymous publishing in 1823. Authorship of the work is most commonly attributed to Clement Clarke Moore, though more recent textual and forensic analysis suggests Henry Livingston, Jr. as the potential author.
However, recently completed analysis of the document presented in this exhibit, A Visit from the Devil-Saint Nikolai, suggests, with high confidence, an older and altogether different origin of this poem. The document, of unknown authorship, was discovered in 2008 during a long-term project to digitize the archives of one of the oldest remaining monasteries in the Ukraine. Chemical analyses of the inks and parchment used indicate the materials are consistent with those in use between 1650 and 1725 in the Eastern European Region.
It appears, then, that the 1823 edition of the poem was derived from, and based heavily on, this previously unknown work. However, the 1823 version takes certain liberties with this likely original text, most notably the change from a dark and foreboding depiction of events to a lighter tone indicative of representations of St. Nicholas common in the early 19th century.
Translation Note: The English translation attempts to stay faithful to the original Ukrainian work. As a result, in some cases the rhyming in the translated version is imperfect and may read somewhat awkwardly.
A Cautionary Note: The original and translated text inside this exhibit, along with the accompanying artwork, may be disturbing to children and those easily distressed. Visitor discretion is advised.
A Visit from the Devil-Saint Nikolai
Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The garlic was hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that cursed Nikolai would never come there.
The children we’d snuck some brandy and schnaps,
So visions of sugar plums would dance ‘round their caps.
And momma with her pitchfork and I with my axe,
Had just settled our brains for a quick winter’s nap.
When out on the green there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair, my heart pitter-patter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Peeked through the boards and checked on the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave an eerie luster to objects below.
And what to my fearful eyes did appear,
But a caged iron sleigh and eight demon-deer,
With a shriveled old driver, yet lively and quick,
I knew in a heartbeat it was the Devil-Saint Nick.
More rapid than eagles the cursed they came,
And he cackled and shouted and called them by name:
Now Basher! now Trouncer!
Now Cancer and Poxen!
On Comet! On Putrid!
On Donder and Blitzen!
As the leaves before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop his demons they flew
With a bag full of toys and the devil Nikolai too.
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The scratching and clawing of each ghastly hoof.
As I drew back my ax, and was turning around,
Down the chimney evil Nikolai came with a bound.
He was dressed all in skins, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes how they sparked! His dimples, how merry!
His teeth were like razors, his nose like a cherry!
His foul little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
A stump of bone he held tight in his teeth,
And it smoked, encircling his head like a wreath;
He had a gaunt face and scarcely a belly,
That rattled when he laughed, rolling stones in a gully.
He was pinched and unplump, a right frightful old elf,
And I quaked when I saw him, in spite of myself;
He crossed to the children, drew off their warm quilt,
Then he poked them and pawed them like so much gefilt.
But a wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his bone,
With nary a nod, up the chimney he’d flown;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave the lash,
And away they flew like a shovel-full of ash.
But I heard him hiss, as he disappeared in the night,
“This Christmas, your children sleep tight.”
To read more stories from December’s Dark & Holy Fiction Challenge visit and follow The Mad River and 13 Days Pub.
