The Devil Made Le Poitevin Do It

by Stephen J. Gertz

Impish devils dance, make merry, carry off young maidens, engage in scatological activities, make mischief, toy with men and women. and generally have a hell of a time as infernal rascals frolicking with diabolical glee in Les Diables de Lithographies by Eugène Modeste Edmond Le Poitevin. 

Published in Paris, 1832, it is the most famous of all works, paint or print, by Le Poitevin (1806-1870), a French painter and lithographer. His "Devilries" established a genre in the wake of the Romantic school's Mephistopheles and Faust, from scenes to fright to scenes that, as here, delight and amuse, Satan a giant buff horned paysan overflowing with specimens for his torment-zoo.

The album, co-published in Paris by chez Aumont and in London by Charles Tilt, contains eighty illustrations on twelve black and white numbered lithographed plates, with two supplemental plates (Petits sujets des diableries manquent le plus souvent, nos. 19 and 26: Paris / London: chez Aubert / Charles Tilt, 1832) containing thirty-five illustrations; a total of fourteen plates with 115 illustrations.

In 1832 France was in turmoil. The idealism of republicans, which peaked during the July Revolution of 1830 when Charles X abdicated and Louis Philippe ascended to the new constitutional monarchy, had been shattered. Subsequent events led them to believe that the blood spilled in 1830 had been for naught. Food shortages and an outbreak of cholera that claimed over 18,000 lives in Paris alone added to the general discontent. Bonapartists bitterly lamented the loss of empire. Supporters of the former Bourbon dynasty were angry that Louis Philippe wasn't a Bourbon. The rich and the poor, who felt victimized by Louis Philippe, had their disillusionment expressed by Parisian republicans, including students, who took to the streets on June 5th and 6th in armed insurrection. The June Rebellion was crushed. 

Diabolical forces at work?

Upon its publication, Les Diables de Lithographies was hugely popular, a sensational success that became en vogue, so much so that demand for further "devilries" became enormous. Le Poitevin quickly  followed with Les diableries érotiques; Petits sujets des diableries; Bizarreries diaboliques; and Encore des Diableries. A. de Bayalos's Diablotins and Michel Delaporte's Récréations diabolico-fantasmagoriques continued in the genre that Le Poitevin established. Diables were all over the place, the zombie apocalypse of contemporary Parisian culture but a lot more fun for the protagonists, many of whom pass wind, water, or what's left of yesterday's lunch for sport.

It will come as no surprise that Les Diables de Lithographies is scarcely found complete, scarcer still in the publisher's original wrappers. The album was routinely broken up and the prints individually sold. OCLC records only one complete copy in institutional holdings worldwide. According to the ABPC Index, the last complete copy to come to auction was in 1923.

Plate 12.

As a painter, Le Poitevin specialized in marine art, as a lithographer he is best-known outside of France for his Devilries. He was a contributor to The Journal of Painters and Charles Philpon's La Caricature. He studied at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris, a pupil of Louis Hersent and Xavier Leprince.  Very popular in his time, he exhibited at the Salon from 1831 until his death in 1870.

Le Poitevin's mark.

"Tout autre est Eugène Le Poitevin, le peintre de marines, qui popularise un genre bien différent mais dont le retentissement ne fut pas moins grand. Procédant en droite ligne du Méphistophélès de Faust et des tendances au bizarre de l’école romantique, les diableries de cet artiste vinrent jeter une note pittoresque et amusante au milieu des estampes sans couleur du consciencieux lithographe. Pendant un temps ce ne furent plus que diables et diableries, diables souvent érotiques, diableries plus ou moins légères. Les Diables, Petits sujets de diables, Bizarreries diaboliques, Encore des Diableries; c’est sous ces titres que se répandaient partout les albums à couverture brune de Le Poitevin qu’imitèrent bientôt de Bayalos avec ses Diablotins et Michel Delaporte avec ses Récréations diabolico-fantasmagoriques. Diables blancs et diables noirs suivis de diables rouges et de diables verts. Le diable se glissait partout, commettant mille incongruités, relevait les robes des femmes, les déshabillait comme par enchantement, les mettait en cage, les tirait par les cheveux, ayant toujours à son service un nombre incalculable de petits diablotins courant à tort et à travers les feuilles. Il y eut une telle invasion des sujets de messire Satan que ce ne fut plus, comme dans la chanson, « Vive la lithographie, » mais « au diable, les polissonnes" (Grand-Carteret, Les Moeurs et la caricature en France, p. 174).

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LE POITEVIN, [Eugène Modeste Edmond]. Les Diables de Lithographies. Paris / London: Chez Aumont / Charles Tilt, n.d. [1832].

First edition, complete. Oblong folio (14 3/8 x 21 3/4 in; 363 x 600 mm). Eighty illustrations on twelve black and white lithographed plates, numbered, with two supplemental plates (Petits sujets des diableries manquent le plus souvent, nos. 19 and 26: Paris / London: Aubert / Tilt, 1832) with thirty-five illustrations; a total of fourteen. 

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Images courtesy of David Brass Rare Books, with our thanks.

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The Battle of the Books (and Other Nocturnal Emissions)

by Stephen J. Gertz

Until recently, I would, from time to time, awaken in the middle of the night to a murmured commotion emanating from the living room. Not unlike the sound of whispering children engrossed in play, the music of merriment would waft into my bedroom like dancing notes adrift upon a zephyr.

Clad in only a knee-length nightshirt and long pajama cap with fuzzy ball at its tail, I would silently ease out of bed, light a candle, and, like Ebenezer Scrooge on recon for Christmas ghosts, cautiously, with no little trepidation, make my way to the living room, concealing myself at the doorway so I could espy the goings on without being caught.

And what did I see? All of my books all over the place, relaxed, with their jackets off, refugees from confinement on the shelves, and mingling, working the room, chit-chatting with other volumes, gossiping, laughing, having a bookishly good time. Over to the right, for instance, Ellroy’s L.A. Confidential is whispering to Jane Eyre and Jane appears abashed; a liaison dangereuse is obviously taking place, for sure, and here’s hoping that Jane has protection - and not from Mickey Cohen or a USC-type Trojan. Near the curtains, a copy of David Ebin’s The Drug Experience is huffing a bottle of leather dressing for the fumes that refresh. The Story of O, A Man With a Maid, and Lolita are behind the couch and the less said the better.

Joseph Forshaw’s classic, Parrots of the World, is mimicking every word that Leaves of Grass is reciting; Ron Chernow’s Alexander Hamilton is talking money with Chernow’s John D. Rockefeller, the two marveling that they have a friend in common; Barry Paris’ Louise Brooks is closer-than-this in confab with Lee Server’s Ava Gardner and who wouldn’t want to be the text block between either of those alluring covers?; Herbert Asbury’s Gangs of New York is on the lam and out of control; and Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment is desperately trying to escape.

Last week, however, I awoke to a clamor. Throwing fears aside I dashed into the living room only to find that all my books had gone berserk, were at each other’s throats, rending dust jackets to shreds, cracking joints, throwing spines out of alignment, deckling edges, springing signatures, dislocating shoulder notes, rubbing each other the wrong way, and generally causing mayhem where merriment once reigned.

The Battle of the Books  (1704).

I took a picture with my new digital camera with software that auto-adjusts the snapped image  so it appears as a vintage engraving (see above). While I futzed with the hi-tech Kodak, a crew of mercenary knights on horseback charged in, further thickening the plot, which had now sickened into a sanguinary battle of the books. The blood ran like ink; it was not a pretty sight. And I swear I saw a  mounted horse, flying. Don't ask about the flying chick blowin' Miles' So What.

Curiously, Jonathan Swift had written about this Verdun of the volumes way back in 1704, part of the prolegomena to his satire, A Tale of the Tub, the author's first published work. He saw it as a battle between ancient and modern books in St. James Library, which was very kind of him; I’m no saint, my name ain’t James, and if my collection of books qualifies as a library then libraries are in even worse shape than reported.

Authors and ideas go toe-to-toe, and the entire tableau is worthy of a segment on Oprah, with members her book club, viciously and without conscience or care for the consequences (no free car!), throwing tomes at each other. The psychopathology of book love/hate is now recognized and bibliopath has entered the American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM) as a standard axis sub-sub-category.

Then the doctor switched my meds. Swift relief was not, alas, forthcoming; the next night I awoke to the reason why my mother routinely lights a match for no obvious reason and Beano was invented.

Attributed to Jonathan Swift.

I went into the living room and for the next hour was transfixed while Jonathan Swift explained the benefits of the wind in the intestinal willows, or the fundament-all cause of the distempers incidental to the fair sex enquired into, proving, a posteriori, once and for all, that most of the disorders in tail’d upon them, are owing to flatulence not seasonably vented. When he finished reading from his book of no ifs, ands, yet butts I felt like I might explode.

'Next morning I called my proctologist. He moonlights as a chimney sweep. My flue swept and thoroughly vented, I slept like a baby that night, which is to say I woke up  four times, crying, hungry, and with a diaper-full.

On the positive side, I no longer awaken in the wee hours with books in the belfry. The meds passed the brain-book barrier, now my books sleep through the night and the bibliographical soap opera that once broadcast while I slumbered has, evidently, been canceled, along with All My Children, One Life To Live, and, due to budget cuts, Reference Desk, the daily serial that ripped the curtain off the scandals, sensations,  raw passions, and illicit desires within a deceptively tranquil suburban library in Liberty Valley, USA, a nice place to raise the kids the American way.

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