Asmodeus; or, The Devil on Two Sticks

by Alain René Le Sage

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.