ASMODEUS; OR, The Devil on Two Sticks.
By ALAIN RENÉ LE SAGE.
WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR, By JULES JANIN.
[Illustration: Asmodeus and Zambullo fly over Madrid]
Illustrated by TONY JOHANNOT.
[Translated by Joseph Thomas.]
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LONDON: BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL. NEW YORK:
416 BROOME STREET.
1879.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
When I first determined on the publication of a new edition of "THE
DEVIL ON TWO STICKS," I had certainly no idea of engaging in a new
translation. I had not read an English version since my boyhood,
and naturally conceived that the one which had passed current for
upwards of a century must possess sufficient merit to render anything
beyond a careful revision, before passing it again through the press,
unnecessary. However, on reading a few pages, and on comparing them
with the much-loved original, I no longer wondered, as I had so often
done, why LE DIABLE BOITEUX was so little esteemed by those who had
only known him in his English dress, while Gil Blas was as great a
favourite with the British public as any of its own heroes of story.
To account for this, I will not dwell on the want of literal fidelity
in the old version, although in some instances that is amusing enough;
but the total absence of style, and that too in the translation of a
work by one of the greatest masters of verbal melody that ever existed,
was so striking as to induce me, rashly perhaps, to endeavour more
worthily to interpret the witty and satirical ASMODEUS for the benefit
of those who have not the inestimable pleasure of comprehending him in
his _native_ tongue--for, as Jules Janin observes, he is a Devil truly
French.
In the translation which I here present, I do not myself pretend, at
all times, to have rendered the words of the 'graceful Cupid' with
strict exactness, but I have striven to convey to my reader the ideas
which those words import. Whether I have succeeded in so doing is for
others to determine; but, if I have not, I shall at all events have the
satisfaction of failing in company,--which, I am told, however, is only
an Old Bailey sort of feeling after all.
I have not thought it necessary to attempt the Life of the Author;
it will be enough to me, for fame, not to have murdered one of his
children. I have therefore adopted the life, character, and behaviour
of Le Sage from one of the most talented of modern French writers,
and my readers will doubtless congratulate themselves on my resolve.
Neither have I deemed it needful to enter into the controversy as to
the originality of this work, except by a note in page 162: and this
I should probably not have appended, had I, while hunting over the
early editions there referred to, observed the original dedication
of Le Sage to 'the illustrious Don Luis Velez de Guevara,' in which
are the following words: "I have already declared, and do now again
declare to the world, that to your Diabolo Cojuelo I owe the title and
plan of this work ...; and I must further own, that if the reader look
narrowly into some passages of this performance, he will find I have
adopted several of your thoughts. I wish from my soul he could find
more, and that the necessity I was under of accommodating my writings
to the genius of my own country had not prevented me from copying you
exactly." This is surely enough to exonerate Le Sage from the many
charges which have been urged against him; and I quote the concluding
sentence of the above, because it is an excuse, from his own pen, for
some little liberties which I have, in my turn, thought it necessary to
take with his work in the course of my labours.
JOSEPH THOMAS.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF LE SAGE.
CHAPTER I. WHAT SORT OF A DEVIL HE OF THE TWO STICKS WAS--WHEN AND BY
WHAT ACCIDENT DON CLEOPHAS LEANDRO PEREZ ZAMBULLO FIRST GAINED THE
HONOUR OF HIS ACQUAINTANCE.
CHAPTER II. WHAT FOLLOWED THE DELIVERANCE OF ASMODEUS.
CHAPTER III. WHERE THE DEVIL TRANSLATED THE STUDENT; AND THE FIRST
FRUITS OF HIS ECCLESIASTICAL ELEVATION.
CHAPTER IV. STORY OF THE LOVES OF THE COUNT DE BELFLOR AND LEONORA DE
CESPEDES.
CHAPTER V. CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF THE LOVES OF THE COUNT DE
BELFLOR AND LEONORA DE CESPEDES.
CHAPTER VI. NEW OBJECTS DISPLAYED TO DON CLEOPHAS; AND HIS REVENGE ON
DONNA THOMASA.
CHAPTER VII. THE PRISON, AND THE PRISONERS.
CHAPTER VIII. OF VARIOUS PERSONS EXHIBITED TO DON CLEOPHAS BY
ASMODEUS, WHO REVEALS TO THE STUDENT WHAT EACH HAS DONE IN HIS DAY.
CHAPTER IX. THE MADHOUSE, AND ITS INMATES.
CHAPTER X. THE SUBJECT OF WHICH IS INEXHAUSTIBLE.
CHAPTER XI. OF THE FIRE, AND THE DOINGS OF ASMODEUS ON THE OCCASION,
OUT OF FRIENDSHIP FOR DON CLEOPHAS.
CHAPTER XII. OF THE TOMBS, OF THEIR SHADES, AND OF DEATH.
CHAPTER XIII. THE FORCE OF FRIENDSHIP.
CHAPTER XIV. THE SQUABBLE BETWEEN THE TRAGIC POET AND THE COMIC AUTHOR.
CHAPTER XV. CONTINUATION, AND CONCLUSION, OF THE FORCE OF FRIENDSHIP.
CHAPTER XVI. THE DREAMERS.
CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH ORIGINALS ARE SEEN OF WHOM COPIES ARE RIFE.
CHAPTER XVIII. RELATING TO OTHER MATTERS WHICH THE DEVIL EXHIBITED TO
THE STUDENT.
CHAPTER XIX. THE CAPTIVES.
CHAPTER XX. OF THE LAST HISTORY RELATED BY ASMODEUS: HOW, WHILE
CONCLUDING IT, HE WAS SUDDENLY INTERRUPTED; AND OF THE DISAGREEABLE
MANNER, FOR THE WITTY DEMON, IN WHICH HE AND DON CLEOPHAS WERE
SEPARATED.
CHAPTER XXI. OF THE DOINGS OF DON CLEOPHAS AFTER ASMODEUS HAD LEFT
HIM; AND OF THE MODE IN WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THIS WORK HAS THOUGHT FIT
TO END IT.
[Illustration: bust of Le Sage between Asmodeus and Gil Blas]
NOTICE OF LE SAGE.
I shall at once place LE SAGE by the side of Molière; he is a comic
poet in all the acceptation of that great word,--COMEDY. He possesses
its noble instincts, its good-natured irony, its animated dialogue,
its clear and flowing style, its satire without bitterness, he has
studied profoundly the various states of life in the heights and
depths of the world. He is perfectly acquainted with the manners of
comedians and courtiers,--of students and pretty women. Exiled from
the Théâtre-Français, of which he would have been the honour, and
less fortunate than Molière, who had comedians under his direction,
and who was the proprietor of his own theatre, Le Sage found himself
obliged more than once to bury in his breast this Comedy, from want of
a fitting stage for its exhibition, and actors to represent it. Thus
circumstanced, the author of "Turcaret" was compelled to seek a new
form, under which he might throw into the world the wit, the grace, the
gaiety, the instruction which possessed him. In writing the biography
of such men, there is but one thing to do, and that is to praise. The
more humble and obscure have they been in their existence, the greater
is the duty of him who tells the story of their lives, to heap upon
them eulogy and honour. This is a tardy justice, if you will, but it is
a justice nevertheless; and besides, of what importance, after all, are
these vulgar events? All these biographies are alike. A little more of
poverty, a little less of misery, a youth expended in energy, a manhood
serious and filled with occupation, an old age respected, honourable;
and, at the end of all these labours, all these troubles, all these
anguishes of mind and heart, of which your great men alone have the
secret,--the Académie-Française in perspective. Then, are you possessed
of mediocre talents only? all doors are open to you;--are you a man of
genius? the door opens with difficulty;--but, are you perchance one of
those excelling spirits who appear but from century to century? it may
turn out that the Académie-Française will not have you at any price.
Thus did it with the great Molière; thus also has it done for Le Sage;
which, by-the-bye, is a great honour for the illustrious author of "Gil
Blas."
René Le Sage was born in the Morbihan, on the 8th of May, 1668:[1] and
in that year Racine produced "Les Plaideurs," and Molière was playing
his "Avare." The father of Le Sage was a man slightly lettered,--as
much so as could be expected of an honourable provincial attorney,
one who lived from day to day like a lord, without troubling himself
too much as to the future fortunes of his only son. The father died
when the child was only fourteen years of age; and soon afterwards the
youthful René lost his mother. He was now alone, under the guardianship
of an uncle, and he was fortunate enough to be placed under the
tutelage of those learned masters of the youth of the seventeenth
century, the Jesuits who subsequently became the instructors of
Voltaire, as they have been of all France of the great age. Thanks
to this talented and paternal teaching, our young orphan quickly
penetrated into the learned and poetical mysteries of that classic
antiquity, which is yet in our days, and will be to the end of time,
the exhaustless source of taste, of style, of reason, and of good
sense. It is to praise Le Sage to say that he was educated with as
much care and assiduity as Molière and Racine, as La Fontaine and
Voltaire; they one and all prepared themselves, by severest study, and
by respect for their masters, to become masters in their turn; and they
have themselves become classic writers, because they reverenced their
classic models,--which may, in case of need, serve as an example for
the beaux-esprits of our own time.
[1] According to Moreri, in his "Grand Dictionnaire Historique,"
(folio, Paris, 1759,) and he cites as his authority M. Titon de
Tillet's second supplement to the "Parnasse Français," Le Sage was
born at Ruis in Brittany, in 1677. There is, however, every reason
to believe that M. Jules Janin is correct, both as to the year and
the place of his birth, notwithstanding that Mr. Chalmers, in his
"Biographical Dictionary," while he assigns to the former the year
1668, places the latter at Vannes, as does also the "Biographie
Universelle," which he appears to have followed.
But, when this preliminary education was completed, and when he left
these learned mansions, all filled with Greek and Latin, all animated
with poetic fervour, Le Sage encountered those terrible obstacles that
await invariably, as he emerges from his studies, every young man
without family, and destitute of fortune. The poet Juvenal has well
expressed it, in one of his sublimest verses: "They with difficulty
rise, whose virtues are opposed by the pinching wants of home."
"Haud facile emergunt, quorum virtutibus obstat
Res angusta domi."
But what matters poverty when one is so young,--when our hopes are so
vast, our thoughts so powerful and rich? You have nothing, it is true;
but the world itself belongs to you,--the world is your patrimony;
you are sovereign of the universe; and around you, the twentieth year
touches every thing with its golden wand. Your clear and sparkling
eye may look in the sun's bright face as dauntless as the eagle's. It
is accomplished: all the powers of your soul are awakened, all the
passions of your heart join in one swelling choir, to chant _Hosanna in
excelsis!_ What matter then that you are poor! A verse sublime, a noble
thought, a well-turned phrase, the hand of a friend, the soft smile of
some bright-eyed damsel as she flits across your path,--there is a
fortune for a week. Those who, at the commencement of every biography,
enter into all sorts of lamentation, and deplore with pathetic voice
the mournful destiny of their hero, are not in the secret of the facile
joys of poetry, of the exquisite happiness of youth,--the simpletons!
They amuse themselves in counting, one by one, the rags that cover
yonder handsome form; and they see not, through the holes of the cloak
which envelopes it, those Herculean arms, or that athletic breast!
They look with pity on that poor young man with well-worn hat, and
beneath that covering deformed they see not those abundant, black,
and tended locks, the flowing diadem of youth! They will tell you,
with heart-rending sighs, how happy Diderot esteemed himself, when to
his crust of bread he joined the luxury of cheese, and how this poor
René le Sage drank at his repasts but pure spring water;--a lamentable
matter, truly! But Diderot, while he ate his cheese, already meditated
the shocks of his "Encyclopædia"; but this same clear fountain from
which you drink, at twenty, in the hollow of your hand, as pure, will
intoxicate more surely than will, after twenty other years, alas! the
sparkling produce of Champagne, poured out in cups of crystal.
This is sufficient reason why we should not trouble ourselves overmuch
as to the early life of Le Sage; he was young and handsome, and as he
marched, his head upturned like a poet, he met as he went along with
those first loves which one always meets when the heart is honest
and devoted. A charming woman loved him, and he let her love him
to her heart's content; and, without concerning himself as to his
good fortune, more than would master Gil Blas have done on a similar
occasion, these first amours of our poet lasted just as long as such
sort of amours ought to last--long enough that they should leave no
subject for regret, not enough that they should evoke hatred. When,
therefore, they had loved each other as much as they could, she and
he, they separated, still to please themselves; she found a husband of
riper age and better off than her lover; he took a wife more beauteous
and less wealthy than his mistress. And blessings on the amiable and
devoted girl who consented, with a joyous heart, to encounter all the
risks, all the vexations, and also to expose herself to the seducing
pleasures of a poetic life! Thus Le Sage entered, almost without
thinking of it, into that laborious life in which one must daily
expend the rarest and most charming treasures of his mind and soul. As
a commencement, he made a translation of the Letters of Calisthenes,
without imagining that he was himself possessed of more wit than all
the Greeks of the fourth century. The work had no success, and it ought
not to have had. He who has the genius of Le Sage must create original
works, or not meddle in the craft. To translate is a trade of manual
skill--to imitate, is one of plagiary. However, the failure of this
first book rendered Le Sage less proud and haughty; and he accepted,
what he would never have done had he at once succeeded, a pension from
M. l'Abbé de Lyonne. This pension amounted to six hundred francs;
and thereupon the biographers of our author are in extacies at the
generosity of the Abbé de Lyonne.
Six hundred francs! and when we reflect that had Le Sage lived in our
day, depending only on his Théâtre de la Foire, he would have gained
thirty thousand francs a year! In our days, a romance like "Gil Blas"
would not be worth less than five hundred thousand francs; "Le Diable
Boiteux" would have brought him a hundred thousand, at least: still,
we must not be angry with M. l'Abbé de Lyonne, for having bestowed a
pension of six hundred on the author of "Gil Blas." The abbé did more;
he opened to Le Sage an admirable treasure of wit, of imagination,
and of poetry; he taught him the Spanish tongue, that lovely and
noble instructress of the great Corneille; and it is doubtless no
slight honour for the language of Cervantes to have given birth in
our land to "The Cid" and to "Gil Blas." You may imagine with what
delight Le Sage accepted this instruction, and how perfectly at home
he found himself in those elegant and gracious manners; with what good
will he studied that smiling gallantry, that loyal jealousy; those
duennas in appearance so austere, in reality so accessible; those
lovely women, their feet ensatined, their head in the mantilla; those
charming mansions, all carved without, and within all silence; those
exciting windows, lighted by smiles above, while concerts murmur at
their feet! You may imagine if he adopted those lively and coquetish
waiting-women, those ingenious and rascally valets, those enormous
mantles so favourable to love, those ancient bowers so friendly to its
modest blisses! Thus, when he had discovered this new world of poesy,
of which he was about to be the Pizarro and the Fernando Cortes, and
of which Corneille had been the Christopher Columbus, René le Sage
clapped his hands for joy. In his noble pride, he stamped his feet on
this enchanted land; he began to read, you may fancy with what delight,
that admirable epic, "Don Quixote," which he studied for its grace,
its charms, its poetry, its passion; putting for the time aside its
satire, and the sarcasm concealed in this splendid drama, as weapons
for a later use, when he should attack the financiers. Certainly, the
Abbé de Lyonne never dreamt that he was opening to the light this
exhaustless mine for the man who was to become the first comic poet of
France--since Molière is one of those geniuses apart, of whom all the
nations of the earth, all literary ages, claim alike with equal right
the honour and the glory.
The first fruit of this Spanish cultivation was a volume of comedies
which Le Sage published, and in which he had translated some excellent
pieces of the Spanish stage. It contained only one from Lopez de Vega,
so ingenious and so fruitful; that was certainly too few: there was
in it not one of Calderon de la Barca; and that was as certainly not
enough. In this book, which I have read with care, in search of some
of those luminous rays which betoken the presence of the man of genius
wherever he has passed, I have met with nothing but the translator.
The original writer does not yet display himself: it is because style
is a thing which comes but slowly; it is because, in this heart of
comedy more especially, there are certain secrets of trade which no
talent can replace, and which must be learned at whatever cost. These
secrets Le Sage learned, as every thing is learned, at his own expense.
From a simple translator as he was, he became an arranger of dramatic
pieces, and in 1702 (the eighteenth century had begun its course, but
with timid steps, and none could have predicted what it would become)
Le Sage brought out at the Théâtre Français a comedy in five acts,
"Le Point d'Honneur:" it was a mere imitation from the Spanish. The
imitation had small success, and Le Sage comprehended not this lesson
of the public; he understood not that something whispered to the
pit, so reserved in its applause, that there was in this translator
an original poet. To avenge himself, what did Le Sage? He fell into
a greater error still: he set to work translating--will you believe
it?--the continuation of "Don Quixote," as if "Don Quixote" could
have a continuation; as if there were a person in the world, even
Cervantes himself, who had the right to add a chapter to this famous
history! Verily, it is strange, indeed, that with his taste so pure,
his judgment so correct, Le Sage should have ever thought of this
unhappy _continuation_. This time, therefore, again his new attempt had
no success; the Parisian public, which, whatever may be said to the
contrary, is a great judge, was more just for the veritable Quixote
than Le Sage himself; and he had once more to begin anew. However, he
yet once more attempted this new road, which could lead him to nothing
good. He returned to the charge, still with a Spanish comedy, "Don
César Ursin," imitated from Calderon. This piece was played for the
first time at Versailles, and applauded to the skies by the court,
which deceived itself almost as often as the town. Le Sage now thought
that the battle at last was won. Vain hope! it was again a battle lost,
for, brought from Versailles to Paris, the comedy of "Don César Ursin"
was hissed off the stage by the Parisian pit, which thus unmercifully
annihilated the eulogies of the court, and the first victory of the
author. It was now full time to yield to the force of evidence.
Enlightened by these rude instructions, Le Sage at last comprehended
that it was not permitted to him, to him less than to all others, to be
a plagiarist; that originality was one of the grand causes of success;
and that to confine himself for ever to this servile imitation of the
Spanish poets was to become a poet lost.
Now, therefore, behold him, determined in his turn to be an original
poet. This time he no longer copies, he invents; he arranges his fable
to his mind, and seeks no further refuge in the phantasmagoria of
Spain. With original ideas, comes to him originality of style; and he
at last lights on that wondrous and imperishable dialogue which may
be compared to the dialogue of Molière, not for its ease, perhaps,
but unquestionably for its grace and elegance. He found at the same
time, to his great joy, now that he was himself--that he walked in the
footsteps of nobody, he found that the business was much more simple;
this time he was at his ease in his plot, which he disposed as it
pleased him; he breathed freely in the space which he had opened to
himself; nothing constrained his march, any more than his poetical
caprice. Well! at last then we behold him the supreme moderator of his
work, we behold him such as the pit would have him, such as we all
hoped he was.
This happy comedy, which is, beyond all doubt, the first work of Le
Sage, is entitled "Crispin, Rival de son Maître." When he had finished
it, Le Sage, grateful for the reception which the court had given to
"Don César Ursin," was desirous that the court should also have the
first hearing of "Crispin, Rival de son Maître." He remembered, with
great delight, that the first applauses he had received had been echoed
from Versailles! Behold him then producing his new comedy before the
court. But, alas! this time the opinion of the court had changed:
without regard for the plaudits of Versailles, the pit of the Paris
theatre had hissed "Don César Ursin"; Versailles in its turn, and as
if to take its revenge, now hissed "Crispin, Rival de son Maître." We
must allow that, for a mind less strong, here was enough to confound
a man for ever, and to make him comprehend nothing either as to the
success or the failure of his productions. Happily, Le Sage appealed
from the public of Versailles to the pit of Paris; and as much as
"Crispin, Rival de son Maître" had been hissed at Versailles, so much
was this charming comedy applauded at Paris. On this occasion, it
was not alone to give the lie to the court, that the pit applauded;
Paris had refound, in truth, in this new piece, all the qualities of
true comedy,--the wit, the grace, the easy irony, the exhaustless
pleasantry, a noble frankness, much biting satire, and a moderate
seasoning of love.
As to those who would turn into accusation the hisses of Versailles,
they should recollect that more than one chef-d'oeuvre, hissed at
Paris, has been raised again by the suffrages of Versailles;--"Les
Plaideurs" of Racine, for instance, which the court restored to the
poet with extraordinary applause, with the bursting laughter of Louis
XIV., which come deliciously to trouble the repose of Racine, at five
o'clock in the morning. Happy times, on the contrary, when poets had,
to approve them, to try them, this double jurisdiction; when they could
appeal from the censures of the court to the praises of the town, from
the hisses of Versailles to the plaudits of Paris!
Now we behold René le Sage, to whom nothing opposes: he has divined his
true vocation, which is comedy; he understands what may be made of the
human race, and by what light threads are suspended the human heart.
These threads of gold, of silver, or of brass, he holds them at this
moment in his hand, and you will see with what skill he weaves them.
Already in his head, which bears Gil Blas and his fortune, ferment the
most charming recitals of "Le Diable Boiteux." Silence! "Turcaret"
is about to appear,--Turcaret, whom Molière would not have forgotten
if Turcaret had lived in his day; but it was necessary to wait till
France should have escaped from the reign, so decorous, of Louis XIV.,
to witness the coming, after the man of the Church, after the man of
the sword, this man without heart and without mind,--the man of money.
In a society like our own, the man of money is one of those bastard
and insolent powers which grow out of the affairs of every day, as the
mushroom grows out from the dunghill. We know not whence comes this
inert force,--we know not how it is maintained on the surface of the
world, and nothing tells how it disappears, after having thrown its
phosphorus of an instant. It is necessary, in truth, that an epoch
should be sufficiently corrupt, and sufficiently stained with infamy,
when it replaces, by money, the sword of the warrior, by money the
sentence of the judge, by money the intelligence of the legislator, by
money the sceptre of the king himself. Once that a nation has descended
so low, as to adore money on its knees--to require neither fine arts,
nor poesy, nor love, it is debased as was the Jewish people, when it
knelt before the golden calf. Happily, of all the ephemeral powers in
the world, money is the most ephemeral; we extend to it our right hand,
it is true, but we buffet it with our left; we prostrate ourselves
before it as it passes along,--yes; but when it has passed, we kick it
with our foot! This is what Le Sage marvellously comprehended, like a
great comic poet as he was. He found the absurd and frightful side of
those gilded men who divide our finances, menials enriched overnight,
who, more than once, by a perfectly natural mistake, have mounted
behind their own coaches. And such is Turcaret. The poet has loaded him
with vices the most disgraceful, with follies the most dishonouring;
he tears from this heart, debased by money, every natural affection;
and nevertheless, even in this fearful picture, Le Sage has confined
himself within the limits of comedy, and not once in this admirable
production does contempt or indignation take the place of laughter. It
was then with good cause that the whole race of financiers, as soon as
they had heard of Turcaret, caballed against this chef-d'oeuvre; the
cry resounded in all the rich saloons of Paris; it was echoed from the
usurers who lent their money to the nobles, and re-echoed by the nobles
who condescended to borrow from the usurers; it was a general hue and
cry.
"Le Tartufe" of Molière never met with greater opposition among the
devotees than "Turcaret" experienced from financiers; and, to make
use of the expression of Beaumarchais in reference to "Figaro," it
required as much mind for Le Sage to cause his comedy to be played as
it did to write it. But on this occasion, again, the public, which
is the all-powerful manager in these matters, was more potent than
intrigue; Monseigneur le Grand Dauphin, that Prince so illustrious by
his piety and virtue, protected the comedy of Le Sage, as his ancestor,
Louis XIV., had protected that of Molière. On this, the financiers,
perceiving that all was lost as far as intrigue was concerned, had
recourse to money, which is the last reason of this description of
upstarts, as cannon is the _ultima ratio_ of kings. This time again
the attack availed not: the great poet refused a fortune that his
comedy might be played, and unquestionably he made a good bargain by
his resolve, preferable a hundred thousand times to all the fortunes
which have been made and lost in the Rue Quincampoix.[2] The success of
"Turcaret" (1709) was immense; the Parisian enjoyed with rare delight
the spectacle of these grasping money-hunters devoted to the most
cruel ridicule. What if Le Sage had deferred the production of this
masterpiece! These men would have disappeared, to make room for others
of the kind, and they would have carried with them into oblivion the
comedy they had paid for. It would have been a _chef-d'oeuvre_ lost to
us for ever; and never, that we know of, would the good men on 'Change
have dealt us a more fatal blow.
[2] In this street, in 1716, the famous projector Law established his
bank; and the rage for speculation which followed, made it for a time
the Bourse of Paris. A hump-backed man made a large fortune by lending
himself as a desk, whereon the speculators might sign their contracts,
or the transfer of shares. The Rue Quincampoix is still a leading
street for business, but its trade is now confined to more honest
wares, such as drugs and grocery.
Who would credit it, however? After this superb production, which
should have rendered him the master of French comedy, Le Sage was soon
compelled to abandon that ungrateful theatre which understood him not.
He renounced,--he, the author of "Turcaret,"--pure comedy, to write, as
a pastime, farces, little one-act pieces mingled with couplets, which
made the life of the Théâtre de la Foire Saint Laurent, and of the
Théâtre de la Foire Saint Germain. Unfortunate example for Le Sage to
set, in expending, without thought, all his talent, from day to day,
without pity for himself, without profit for anyone. What! the author
of "Turcaret" to fill exactly the same office as M. Scribe; to waste
his time, his style, and his genius upon that trifling comedy which a
breath can hurry away! And the French comedians were all unmoved, and
hastened not to throw themselves at the feet of Le Sage, to pray, to
supplicate him to take under his all-powerful protection that theatre
elevated by the genius and by the toils of Molière! But these senseless
comedians were unable to foresee anything.
Nevertheless, if he had renounced the Théâtre Français, Le Sage had not
abandoned true comedy. All the comedies which thronged his brain, he
heaped them up in that grand work which is called "Gil Blas," and which
includes within itself alone the history of the human heart. What can
be said of "Gil Blas" which has not already been written? How can I
sufficiently eulogise the only book truly gay in the French language?
The man who wrote "Gil Blas" has placed himself in the first rank among
all the authors of this world; he has made himself, by the magic of
his pen, the cousin-german of Rabelais and Montaigne, the grandfather
of Voltaire, the brother of Cervantes, and the younger brother of
Molière; he takes his place, in plenitude of right, in the family of
comic poets, who have themselves been philosophers. In the same vein,
he has further composed the "Bachelier de Salamanque," which would be a
charming book if "Gil Blas" existed not, if above all, before writing
his "Gil Blas," he had not written this charming book, "LE DIABLE
BOITEUX."
And now, _sauve qui peut!_ the Devil is let loose upon the town, a
devil truly French, who has the wit, the grace, and the vivacity of Gil
Blas. Beware! Look to yourselves, you the ridiculous and the vicious,
who have escaped the high comedy of the stage, for, by the virtue of
this all-potent wand, not alone your mansions but your very souls
shall in a twinkling change to glass. Beware! I say; for Asmodeus,
the terrible scoffer, is about to plunge his pitiless eye into those
mysterious places which you deemed so impenetrable, and to each of you
he will reveal his secret history; he will strike you without mercy
with that ivory crutch which opens all doors and all hearts; he will
proclaim aloud your follies and your vices. None shall escape from
that vigilant observer, who, astride upon his crutch, glides upon
the roofs of the best secured houses, and divines their ambitions,
their jealousies, their inquietudes, and, above all, their midnight
wakefulness. Considered with relation to its wit without bitterness,
its satire which laughs at everything, and with regard to its style,
which is admirable, "Le Diable Boiteux" is perhaps the book most
perfectly French in our language; it is perhaps the only book that
Molière would have put his name to after "Gil Blas."
Such was this life, all filled with most delightful labour, as also
with the most serious toil; thus did this man, who was born a great
author, and who has raised to perfection the talent of writing, go
on from chef-d'oeuvre to chef-d'oeuvre without pause. The number of
his productions is not exactly known; at sixty-five years of age, he
yet wrote a volume of _mélanges_, and he died without imagining to
himself the glories which were reserved for his name. An amiable and
light-hearted philosopher, he was to the end full of wit and good
sense; an agreeable gossiper, a faithful friend, an indulgent father,
he retired to the little town of Boulogne-sur-Mer, where he became
without ceremony a good citizen, whom everybody shook by the hand
without any great suspicion that he was a man of genius. Of three sons
who had been born to him, two became comedians, to the great sorrow of
their noble father, who had preserved for the players, as is plainly
perceptible in "Gil Blas," a well-merited dislike. However, Le Sage
pardoned his two children, and he even frequently went to applaud the
elder, who had taken the name of Monmenil; and when Monmenil died,
before his father, Le Sage wept for him, and never from that time
(1743) entered a theatre. His third son, the brother of these two
comedians, was a good canon of Boulogne-sur-Mer; and it was to his
house that Le Sage retired with his wife and his daughter, deserving
objects of his affection, and who made all the happiness of his latest
days.
One of the most affable gentlemen of that time, who would have been
remarkable by his talents, even though he had not been distinguished
by his nobility, M. le Comte de Tressan, governor of Boulogne-sur-Mer,
was in the habit of seeing the worthy old man during the last year of
his life; and upon that fine face, shaded with thick white hairs, he
could still discern that love and genius had been there. Le Sage rose
early, and his first steps took him to seek the sun. By degrees, as
the luminous rays fell upon him, thought returned to his forehead,
motion to his heart, gesture to his hand, and his eyes were lighted
with their wonted fire: as the sun mounted in the skies, this awakened
intelligence appeared, on its side, more brilliant and more clear;
so much so, that you beheld again before you the author of "Gil
Blas." But, alas! all this animation drooped in proportion as the sun
declined; and, when night was come, you had before your eyes but a good
old man, whose steps must be tended to his dwelling.
Thus died he, one day in summer. The sun had shown itself in heaven's
topmost height on that bright day; and it had not quite left the earth
when Le Sage called the members of his family around to bless them. He
was little less than ninety when he died (1747).
To give you an idea of the popularity that this man enjoyed even
during his life-time, I will finish with this anecdote: When the
"Diable Boiteux" appeared, in 1707, the success of this admirable and
ingenious satire upon human life was so great, the public esteemed
the lively epigrams it contains so delightful, that the publisher was
obliged to print two editions in one week. On the last day of this
week, two gentlemen, their swords by their sides, as was then the
custom, entered the bookseller's shop to buy the new romance. A single
copy remained to sell: one of these gentlemen would have it, the other
also claimed it; what was to be done? Why, in a moment, there were our
two infuriate readers with their swords drawn, and fighting for the
first blood, and the last "Diable Boiteux."
But what, I pray you, had they done, were it a question then of the
"DIABLE BOITEUX" illustrated by TONY JOHANNOT?
JULES JANIN.
[Illustration: a street in Madrid]
ASMODEUS; OR, THE DEVIL ON TWO STICKS.
CHAPTER I.
WHAT SORT OF A DEVIL HE OF THE TWO STICKS WAS--WHEN AND BY WHAT
ACCIDENT DON CLEOPHAS LEANDRO PEREZ ZAMBULLO FIRST GAINED THE HONOUR OF
HIS ACQUAINTANCE.
A night in the month of October covered with its thick darkness the
famous city of Madrid. Already the inhabitants, retired to their homes,
had left the streets free for lovers who desired to sing their woes
or their delights beneath the balconies of their mistresses; already
had the tinkling of guitars aroused the care of fathers, or alarmed
the jealousy of husbands; in short, it was near midnight, when Don
Cleophas Leandro Perez Zambullo, a student of Alcala, suddenly emerged,
by the skylight, from a house into which the incautious son of the
Cytherean goddess had induced him to enter. He sought to preserve his
life and his honour, by endeavouring to escape from three or four hired
assassins, who followed him closely, for the purpose of either killing
him or compelling him to wed a lady with whom they had just surprised
him.
[Illustration: Zambullo fleeing from the hired assassins]
Against such fearful odds he had for some time valiantly defended
himself; and had only flown, at last, on losing his sword in the
combat. The bravos followed him for some time over the roofs of the
neighbouring houses; but, favoured by the darkness, he evaded their
pursuit; and perceiving at some distance a light, which Love or Fortune
had placed there to guide him through this perilous adventure, he
hastened towards it with all his remaining strength. After having more
than once endangered his neck, he at length reached a garret, whence
the welcome rays proceeded, and without ceremony entered by the
window; as much transported with joy as the pilot who safely steers his
vessel into port when menaced with the horrors of shipwreck.
He looked cautiously around him; and, somewhat surprised to find nobody
in the apartment, which was rather a singular domicile, he began to
scrutinize it with much attention. A brass lamp was hanging from the
ceiling; books and papers were heaped in confusion on the table; a
globe and mariner's compass occupied one side of the room, and on the
other were ranged phials and quadrants; all which made him conclude
that he had found his way into the haunt of some astrologer, who, if he
did not live there, was in the habit of resorting to this hole to make
his observations.
He was reflecting on the dangers he had by good fortune escaped,
and was considering whether he should remain where he was until the
morning, or what other course he should pursue, when he heard a deep
sigh very near him. He at first imagined it was a mere phantasy of his
agitated mind, an illusion of the night; so, without troubling himself
about the matter, he was in a moment again busied with his reflections.
[Illustration: Lucifer, the mountebank's devil]
But having distinctly heard a second sigh, he no longer doubted its
reality; and, although he saw no one in the room, he nevertheless
called out,--"Who the devil is sighing here?" "It is I, Signor
Student," immediately answered a voice, in which there was something
rather extraordinary; "I have been for the last six months enclosed
in one of these phials. In this house lodges a learned astrologer,
who is also a magician: he it is who, by the power of his art, keeps
me confined in this narrow prison." "You are then a spirit?" said Don
Cleophas, somewhat perplexed by this new adventure. "I am a demon,"
replied the voice; "and you have come in the very nick of time to free
me from slavery. I languish in idleness; for of all the devils in hell,
I am the most active and indefatigable."
[Illustration: Uriel, patron of tradesmen]
These words somewhat alarmed Signor Zambullo; but, as he was naturally
brave, he quickly recovered himself, and said in a resolute tone:
"Signor Diabolus, tell me, I pray you, what rank you may hold among
your brethren. Are you an aristocrat, or a burgess?" "I am," replied
the voice, "a devil of importance, nay, the one of highest repute in
this, as in the other world." "Perchance," said Don Cleophas, "you
are the renowned Lucifer?" "Bah," replied the spirit; "why, he is
the mountebank's devil." "Are you Uriel then?" asked the Student.
"For shame!" hastily interrupted the voice; "no, he is the patron of
tradesmen; of tailors, butchers, bakers, and other cheats of the
middle classes." "Well, perhaps you are Beelzebub?" said Leandro.
"Are you joking?" replied the spirit; "he is the demon of duennas and
footmen." "That astonishes me," said Zambullo; "I thought Beelzebub
one of the greatest persons at your court." "He is one of the meanest
of its subjects," answered the Demon; "I see you have no very clear
notions of our hell."
[Illustration: Leviathan, Belphegor and Ashtaroth]
"There is no doubt then," said Don Cleophas, "that you are either
Leviathan, Belphegor, or Ashtaroth." "Ah! those three now," replied
the voice, "are devils of the first order, veritable spirits of
diplomacy. They animate the councils of princes, create factions,
excite insurrections, and light the torches of war. They are not
such peddling devils as the others you have named." "By the bye! tell
me," interrupted the Scholar, "what post is assigned to Flagel?"
"He is the soul of special pleading, and the spirit of the bar. He
composes the rules of court, invented the law of libel, and that for
the imprisonment of insolvent debtors; in short, he inspires pleaders,
possesses barristers, and besets even the judges.
[Illustration: Flagel]
"For myself, I have other occupations: I make absurd matches; I marry
greybeards with minors, masters with servants, girls with small
fortunes with tender lovers who have none. It is I who introduced into
this world luxury, debauchery, games of chance, and chemistry. I am
the author of the first cookery book, the inventor of festivals, of
dancing, music, plays, and of the newest fashions; in a word, I am
ASMODEUS, surnamed THE DEVIL ON TWO STICKS."
"What do I hear," cried Don Cleophas; "are you the famed Asmodeus, of
whom such honourable mention is made by Agrippa and in the Clavicula
Salamonis? Verily, you have not told me all your amusements; you have
forgotten the best of all. I am well aware that you sometimes divert
yourself by assisting unhappy lovers: by this token, last year only, a
young friend of mine obtained, by your favour, the good graces of the
wife of a Doctor in our university, at Alcala." "That is true," said
the spirit: "I reserved that for my last good quality. I am the Demon
of voluptuousness, or, to express it more delicately, Cupid, the god
of love; that being the name for which I am indebted to the poets,
who, I must confess, have painted me in very flattering colours. They
say I have golden wings, a fillet bound over my eyes; that I carry
a bow in my hand, a quiver full of arrows on my shoulders, and have
withal inexpressible beauty. Of this, however, you may soon judge for
yourself, if you will but restore me to liberty."
"Signor Asmodeus," replied Leandro Perez, "it is, as you know, long
since I have been devoted to you: the perils I have just escaped will
prove to you how entirely. I am rejoiced to have an opportunity of
serving you; but the vessel in which you are confined is undoubtedly
enchanted, and I should vainly strive to open, or to break it: so I do
not see clearly in what manner I can deliver you from your bondage.
I am not much used to these sorts of disenchantments; and, between
ourselves, if, cunning devil as you are, you know not how to gain your
freedom, what probability is there that a poor mortal like myself can
effect it?" "Mankind has this power," answered the Demon. "The phial
which encloses me is but a mere glass bottle, easy to break. You have
only to throw it on the ground, and I shall appear before you in human
form." "In that case," said the Student, "the matter is easier of
accomplishment than I imagined. But tell me in which of the phials you
are; I see a great number of them, and all so like one another, that
there may be a devil in each, for aught I know." "It is the fourth from
the window," replied the spirit. "There is the impress of a magical
seal on its mouth; but the bottle will break, nevertheless." "Enough,"
said Don Cleophas; "I am ready to do your bidding. There is, however,
one little difficulty which deters me: when I shall have rendered you
the service you require, how know I that I shall not have to pay the
magician, in my precious person, for the mischief I have done?" "No
harm shall befall you," replied the Demon: "on the contrary, I promise
to content you with the fruits of my gratitude. I will teach you all
you can desire to know; I will discover to you the shifting scenes of
this world's great stage; I will exhibit to you the follies and the
vices of mankind; in short, I will be your tutelary demon: and, more
wise than the Genius of Socrates, I undertake to render you a greater
sage than that unfortunate philosopher. In a word, I am yours, with all
my good and bad qualities; and they shall be to you equally useful."
"Fine promises, doubtless," replied the Student; "but if report speak
truly, you devils are accused of not being religiously scrupulous
in the performance of your undertakings." "Report is not always a
liar," said Asmodeus, "and this is an instance to the contrary. The
greater part of my brethren think no more of breaking their word than
a minister of state; but for myself, not to mention the service you
are about to render me, and which I can never sufficiently repay, I am
a slave to my engagements; and I swear by all a devil holds sacred,
that I will not deceive you. Rely on my word, and the assurances I
offer: and what must be peculiarly pleasing to you, I engage, this
night, to avenge your wrongs on Donna Thomasa, the perfidious woman
who had concealed within her house the four scoundrels who surprised
you, that she might compel you to espouse her, and patch up her damaged
reputation."
The young Zambullo was especially delighted with this last promise. To
hasten its accomplishment, he seized the phial; and, without further
thought on the event, he dashed it on the floor. It broke into a
thousand pieces, inundating the apartment with a blackish liquor: this,
evaporating by degrees, was converted into a thick vapour, which,
suddenly dissipating, revealed to the astonished sight of the Student
the figure of a man in a cloak, about two feet six inches high, and
supported by two crutches. This little monster had the legs of a goat,
a long visage, pointed chin, a dark sallow complexion, and a very flat
nose; his eyes, to all appearance very small, resembled two burning
coals; his enormous mouth was surmounted by a pair of red mustachios,
and ornamented with two lips of unequalled ugliness.
[Illustration: Asmodeus revealed to Zambullo]
The head of this graceful Cupid was enveloped in a sort of turban of
red crape, relieved by a plume of cock's and peacock's feathers. Round
his neck was a collar of yellow cloth, upon which were embroidered
divers patterns of necklaces and earrings. He wore a short white
satin gown, or tunic, encircled about the middle by a large band of
parchment of the same colour, covered with talismanic characters. On
the gown, also, were painted various bodices, beautifully adapted for
the display of the fair wearers' necks; scarfs of different patterns,
worked or coloured aprons, and head-dresses of the newest fashion;--all
so extravagant, that it was impossible to admire one more than another.
[Illustration: Detail of the cloak: the Spanish lady and her admirer]
But all this was nothing as compared with his cloak, the foundation
of which was also white satin. Its exterior presented an infinity of
figures delicately tinted in Indian ink, and yet with so much freedom
and expression that you would have wondered who the devil could have
painted it. On one side appeared a Spanish lady covered with her
mantilla, and leering at a stranger on the promenade; and on the other
a Parisian grisette, who before her mirror was studying new airs to
victimize a young abbé, at that moment opening the door. Here, the gay
Italian was singing to the guitar beneath the balcony of his mistress;
and there, the sottish German, with vest unbuttoned, stupefied with
wine, and more begrimed with snuff than a French petit-maître, was
sitting, surrounded by his companions, at a table covered with the
filthy remnants of their debauch. In one place could be perceived a
Turkish bashaw coming from the bath, attended by all the houris of his
seraglio, each watchful for the handkerchief; and in another an English
gentleman, who was gallantly presenting to his lady-love a pipe and a
glass of porter.
[Illustration: The gamesters]
Besides these there were gamesters, marvellously well portrayed; some,
elated with joy, filling their hats with pieces of gold and silver;
and others, who had lost all but their honour, and willing to stake on
that, now turning their sacrilegious eyes to heaven, and now gnawing
the very cards in despair. In short, there were as many curious things
to be seen on this cloak as on the admirable shield which Vulcan forged
for Achilles, at the prayer of his mother Thetis; with this difference
however,--the subjects on the buckler of the Grecian hero had no
relation to his own exploits, while those on the mantle of Asmodeus
were lively images of all that is done in this world at his suggestion.