A DEVOTEE OF PLEASURE

Press, Volume CVI, Issue 31262, 7 January 1967, Page 4

A DEVOTEE OF PLEASURE

Monsienr N’ieolas, or The Human Heart Laid Bare. By Restif de la Bretonne. Translated by Robert Baldick. Barrie and Rockliff. 458 pp.

In the earlier editions of Lanson’s “History of French Literature” Restif de la Bretonne was dismissed in four or five lines. Except for an occasional touch of realism here and there in “Monsieur Nicolas,” he scarcely had any claim to a place in literature, it appears. Later critics have taken him much more seriously. Indeed it would be hard to ignore a man whose published works ran to 200 volumes.

Until fairly recently Res-i tif was principally regarded as a writer of licentious stories, a cynical, perhaps hypocritical, disciple of Rousseau. Of “Monsieur Nicolas” the author himself remarks: “I shall disguise nothing: I shall dissect the ordinary man as J. J. Rousseau dissected the great man, but not in servile imitation of him.” Certainly Restif had plenty to say. His ordinary man was well endowed with sentimental impulses, fine feelings, and with other attributes not so fine. After all, the subtitle speaks for itself. Originally the work demanded 16 volumes and the

present translator has mercifully abridged it Restif presents Monsieur Nicolas as a devotee of pleasure, but in the most highminded, sensitive manner possible in the circumstances. His hero had the ability to fall in love just as frequently as Casanova did. His sentiments were frequently sublime. On the other hand, when he indulged in more casual affairs, he was eager to point out to the reader the awful depravity which marked his conduct No-one could be more precise in describing and summing up an immoral situation.

Unfortunately for the state of Monsieur Nicolas’s vibrant spiritual nature, he forgot so easily. Although plunged into the depths of despair at the loss of some agreeable peasant girl or of some more worldly-wise town lady, he always seemed to turn down a side-street and walk straight into a new intrigue. At that delicious moment, the past with all its vexations and griefs was as if it had never been; and Monsieur Nicolas was just 16 again. “ ‘She is a girl,’ I thought, ‘and I am a boy: I shall marry her. My parents will see her as a good match and suitable in every respect. She is charming; they will adore her; she i,

loves me, and I shall be the happiest of men.”’ And so on, and so on. Nevertheless it would be unfair to deny that there is one real love in these pages. The devotion that Monsieur Nicolas felt for Madame Parangon, although it expressed itself very strangely on occasion, had something of genuine sincerity; and a sympathetic reader will concede that Restif could draw upon some accurate knowledge of prolonged affection and regard, if he wanted to. In addition, Monsieur Nicolas had an eye for picturesque scenery and an eighteenth-century taste for Latin poetry. Nothing could be better than the vignettes of Paris squares and alleys, the glimpses of life in provincial settings, that abound in these pages. It is interesting, besides, to notice how the atmosphere in which Monsieur Nicolas moved becomes more sombre and murky as age and infirmity increased; and in this way Restif brought his work to an impressive conclusion. Impressive, that is, to all but those cynical readers who form the opinion that Monsieur Nicolas is, in reality, just another moral wreck gently crying into his beer.