Cartesian Modernity and La Princesse de Clèves

1 Cartesian Modernity and the Princesse de Clèves
“Cartesian Modernity and La Princesse de Clèves,” Seventeenth-Century French Studies,
vol. 29 (2007), 73-80.
Ellen McClure
René Descartes remains closely associated, if not synonymous, with modernity.1
Descartes’s association of truth with the ‘clear and distinct’ places rupture at the very
heart of metaphysics, in a move that the philosopher saw as itself a break with tradition.
What to make of the various ruptures that characterize Descartes’s philosophy, however,
has remained the subject of continued and vigorous debate. While Dalia Judovitz
emphasizes the mind-body split even as she points to its ultimate impossibility, Timothy
J. Reiss views the division of mind and body, along with Descartes’s famous rejection of
historical context, as way-stations on the road to an ultimate re-embodiment or recontextualization, rather than a wholesale endorsement of such ruptures.2 More recently,
Erec Koch has argued that Descartes, especially in the texts written after the Discourse
1
I would like to thank Steven Emmanuel (Philosophy, Virginia Wesleyan College) for
his comments on the final version of this manuscript.
2
See Dalia Judovitz, The Culture of the Body: Genealogies of Modernity (Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 2001), pp. 65-107, and Timothy J. Reiss, Against
Autonomy: Global Dialectics of Cultural Exchange (Stanford: Stanford University Press,
2002), pp. 184-218.
2 on Method and the Meditations, views the body not as mechanical and alienated from the
mind, but rather as ‘the source and site of passions and sensibility’.3
These thoughtful readings of Descartes point, in their divergence, to the
difficulties subtending any attempt to draw a clear equivalence between Descartes and
modernity without falling into what Reiss calls ‘simplifying misunderstandings’ (p. 189).
That said, it would be a mistake to underestimate the radical originality of Descartes’s
thought and method -- an originality that was keenly perceived, and often questioned, by
the philosopher’s contemporaries. It is perhaps more accurate to speak not of a sharp
division between mind and body but rather of a split between the will -- whose
sovereignty and freedom Descartes worked tirelessly to prove and preserve -- and the
material world, the substance étendue of which human bodies are only one part.
Reframing Descartes’s philosophy -- and modernity -- in these terms serves to remind us
that Descartes’s thought was less anthropocentric than we, who mainly read and teach the
Discourse on Method, the Meditations, or even Les Passions de l’âme, commonly
assume.4
3
Erec R. Koch, ‘Cartesian Corporality and (Aesth)Ethics’, PMLA, 121 (2006), 405-20 (p.
417).
4
As Daniel Garber states, ‘Although today he is probably best known for his metaphysics
of mind and body, or for his epistemological program, in the seventeenth century
Descartes was at the very least equally well known for his mechanistic physics and the
mechanist world of geometrical bodies in motion which he played a large role in making
acceptable to his contemporaries.’ ‘Descartes’s physics’, in The Cambridge Companion
3 Although perhaps not central to Descartes’s philosophy, the human poses unique
problems in his system, insofar as the human self straddles the divide between the
extended matter of the outside world and the immaterial, albeit substantive, sovereignty
of the divine. While Descartes’s magisterial Principes de la philosophie (1647) opens
with a discussion of God and will and closes with a consideration of the human body and
the extent to which it partakes of the characteristics of the larger physical universe, the
philosopher’s most extensive treatment of the problematic contact between self and world
occurs in Les Passions de l’âme (1649).5 Here, Descartes describes the means by which
the embodied human mind encounters and processes the elements of the larger world
which present themselves to it. As critics such as Lorraine Daston and Luce Irigaray have
noted, this encounter begins with wonder, or ‘admiration’, which Descartes defines as
‘une subite surprise de l’âme, qui fait qu’elle se porte à considérer avec attention les
objets qui lui semblent rares et extraordinaires’.6 This initial, surprising contact with what
to Descartes, ed. by John Cottingham (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992),
pp. 286-334 (p. 286).
5
The Principes de la philosophie (1647) was, of course, a French translation, overseen
by Descartes of the Latin original, the Principia Philosophiae, which appeared in 1644.
In this article, I will be quoting from the French text.
6
René Descartes, Les Passions de l’âme, in Œuvres philosophiques, ed. by Ferdinand
Alquié, 3 vols (Paris: Garnier Frères, 1963-1973), III, 951-1103 (art. 70, p. 1006). Further
references to this edition will be given after quotations in the text, by article and page
numbers. Lorraine Daston’s perceptive remarks associating surprise with a paralysis of
the will are in ‘Fortuna and the Passions’, in Chance, Culture and the Literary Text, ed.
4 seems new and extraordinary founds not merely all of the other passions, but also all
knowledge; it is the basis for curiosity and the will to understand.7 Yet this moment, in its
suddenness and unpredictability, is not without danger to the thinking, willing self.
Excess wonder can lead to astonishment, wherein the spirits inside of the mind are so
occupied with preserving the impression of the object causing wonder that
il n’y en a aucuns qui passent de là dans les muscles, ni même qui se détournent
en aucune façon des premières traces qu’ils ont suivies dans le cerveau: ce qui fait
que tout le corps demeure immobile comme une statue, et qu’on ne peut
apercevoir de l’objet que la première face qui s’est présentée, ni par conséquent
en acquérir une plus particulière connaissance (art. 73, p. 1009).
by Thomas Kavanagh (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994), pp. 25-47. See
also Luce Irigaray, ‘Wonder: A Reading of Descartes, The Passions of the Soul’, trans. by
Carolyn Burke and Gillian C. Gill, in Feminist Interpretations of René Descartes, ed. by
Susan Bordo (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999), pp. 10513.
7
Luce Irigaray goes further, suggesting that wonder lies at the very foundation of
selfhood: ‘For Descartes, that which is different is stimulating because it is rare and
extraordinary. The beginning of the position of the subject as such still welcomes as
desirable that which it does not know, that which it ignores or which remains foreign to
it.’ ‘Wonder’, p. 111.
5 The dividing line between self and world is abolished in étonnement; the immobile body
(note Descartes’s insistence on this term) is deprived of its connection with the judgment
and will that would allow the mind to know the object causing the emotion. If in wonder,
the new and extraordinary object is retained ‘par quelque passion, ou bien aussi par
l’application de notre entendement, que notre volonté détermine à une attention et
réflexion particulière’ (art. 75, p. 1010), astonishment, ‘qui ne peut jamais être que
mauvais’ (art. 73, p. 1009) ‘peut entièrement ôter ou pervertir l’usage de la raison’ (art.
76, p. 1011).
This brief tour through Descartes’s discussion of wonder and astonishment serves
to point out the fragile equilibrium of raison, jugement, and volonté, on the one hand, and
the physical world on the other. For Descartes, contact with objects is essential to life in
the world and to knowledge, and wonder itself is praised, but the ideal outcome of this
momentary surprise is the reassertion of the will and reason. As the new is contextualized
and correctly identified as one aspect of an ultimately undifferentiated substance étendue
-- a philosophical concept which could well be viewed as the ultimate triumph of context
-- it loses its dangerous power to fascinate, and the distance required between self and
world for the will to operate can be restored. From dangerously passive and immobile,
the self becomes mobile, free, and active. It liberates itself from the interdependent,
determinate world of matter.
The connection between the ideas outlined above and Madame de Lafayette’s
Princesse de Clèves (1678) may, at first, seem tenuous. However, a closer reading of the
novel against and alongside Descartes’s philosophy reveals that the Princesse de Clèves
can be viewed as a prolonged reflection on the nature of the human, and, more precisely,
6 as an investigation of human physicality. By this I mean not only the intense, albeit
discreet, eroticism of the novel, but also the novel’s attempt to posit and investigate the
possibilities for humanity and transcendence in a world from which the will has been
completely evacuated. A close comparison of the work with Descartes’s philosophy as
outlined not in the Discours de la Méthode or the Méditations, but rather in Les Passions
de l’âme and the Principes de la Philosophie, demonstrates Madame de Lafayette’s
rather sophisticated attempt to question the applicability of Descartes’s sharp division of
body and mind -- or, more accurately, of will and the world -- to the embodied human
self.
A general resonance between La Princesse de Clèves and Les Passions de l’âme
is undeniable. Serge Doubrovsky, for one, notes the connection between the texts, stating
that ‘On dirait que le plan d’ensemble formé par Mme de Chartres pour réaliser ses
desseins est né d’un long commerce avec la pensée cartésienne et en particulier, d’une
lecture attentive du Traité des passions’.8 A close look at the novel’s language, however,
demonstrates an even more explicit connection between the two works, one that is not
restricted to the principles that the princess’s mother uses in her daughter’s education.
The famous moment when the princess makes her first appearance at the court, which
Madame de Lafayette describes with a resonant use of the passé simple -- ‘il parut alors
une beauté à la cour’ -- is a perfect example of the surprising irruption of the new which
8
Serge Doubrovsky, ‘La Princesse de Clèves: une interpretation existentielle’, La Table
Ronde, 138 (1959), 36-51 (p. 40).
7 Descartes identifies as the beginning of passion.9 And indeed, the reaction of the jaded
nobility at court follows Cartesian lines and is expressed in terms of wonder: ‘l’on doit
croire que c’était une beauté parfaite, puisqu’elle donna de l’admiration dans un lieu où
l’on était si accoutumé à voir de belles personnes’ (p. 76, emphasis added). The next day,
this moment is particularized when Monsieur de Clèves sees the princess for the first
time. At this point in the text, the Cartesian terms of admiration and étonnement
proliferate. First, the princess blushes upon seeing the ‘étonnement’ that she causes, and
Monsieur de Clèves regards her with the ‘admiration’ that comes from not being able to
contextualize or explain her: ‘il ne pouvait comprendre qui était cette belle personne qu’il
ne connaissait point’ (p. 77). As his efforts to understand who she is and where she comes
from fail, wonder is transformed into astonishment: ‘il ne savait que penser, et il la
regardait toujours avec étonnement’ (p. 77). In this manner, his ‘passion extraordinaire’
(p. 78) is born; and of course, Descartes’s warning that étonnement ‘peut entièrement ôter
ou pervertir l’usage de la raison’ makes the ultimately tragic outcome of this passion if
not inevitable, at least relatively unsurprising.
Given Descartes’s opinion that the people who are particularly vulnerable to
wonder are those who, ‘bien qu’ils aient un sens commun assez bon, n’ont pas toutefois
grande opinion de leur suffisance’ (art. 77, p. 1011), the reader should expect a different
reaction to the princess from the Duke de Nemours, who, unlike the Prince de Clèves, has
ample ground for having a quite good opinion of his ‘suffisance’. And in fact, at the
scene of the ball, the description of their first encounter is differently inflected. The same
9
Madame de Lafayette, La Princesse de Clèves (Paris: Flammarion, 1996), p. 76. Further
references to this edition will be given after quotations in the text.
8 terminology of surprise, admiration, and étonnement is present, but the narrator’s
reference to astonishment remains general and impersonal, merely noting that ‘il était
difficile aussi de voir Madame de Clèves pour la première fois sans avoir un grand
étonnement’ (p. 91). This backdrop of generalized astonishment serves as additional
proof of the duke’s exceptional character, insofar as he is carefully described as prey to
passions beyond his control, but not astonished: ‘il ne put s’empêcher de donner des
marques de son admiration’ (p. 91). A few lines later, the duke’s wonder at the princess,
which falls just short of the mind-numbing paralysis of astonishment, is reiterated, when
the reader is informed that although the Reine Dauphine had seemed perfect to the duke
before his trip to Flanders, ‘de tout le soir, il ne put admirer que Madame de Clèves’ (p.
92).10
The novel’s perfectly calibrated deployment of Cartesian terminology leads us
back to the raison d’être of Descartes’s treatise on passions -- the explanation of the
complexity of the human self, both embodied and endowed with a soul capable of reason
and of discerning ‘clear and distinct’ ideas. Yet if the passions are carefully evoked by
Madame de Lafayette, the other half of Descartes’s equation, wherein the active (rather
than the passive or reactive) lies with the will rather than the world that surrounds it is
missing from her text. As Serge Doubrovsky has stated, the world of the novel is ‘à la
fois sans grâce et sans volonté’ (p. 50). Yet Doubrovsky’s analysis, which ultimately rests
10
It should be noted that reading these scenes of encounters alongside Les Passions de
l’âme serves to nuance the goodness of Monsieur de Clèves and the eventual
heartlessness of the Duke de Nemours, whose moments of relative clarity can be
explained by his worthiness or fortitude rather than through his lack of passion.
9 on an existential interpretation of the spontaneity of passion, neglects the extent to which
the seventeenth century was at least as familiar with Descartes’s physics as with his
metaphysics. Indeed, recalling that Descartes tells us that wonder and astonishment are
occasioned by ‘objets’, rather than by other people, allows us to open a path to a new
interpretation of the princess and the world of the novel. By applying the language of the
passions to the novel’s characters, Madame de Lafayette invites the reader to place
humanity less in the isolated, independent world of the rational soul endowed with free
will (the world of Descartes’s poêle, as it were) than in the object world, the world of
matter and the substance étendue whose properties Descartes describes in his Principes
de la philosophie. In so doing, she radically questions the mind-body split and suggests
other ways of defining (or, perhaps more accurately, describing) the human.
In the Principes, Descartes lays out an elaborate, poetic vision of the world, from
the cosmos to the human body, in which everything can be explained by ‘grandeur,
figure, situation et mouvement des diverses parties de la matière’.11 The extreme
interdependence of the parts comprising this world, where movement is caused not by the
initiative of any one of its constitutive elements, but rather by an absent, divine cause,
leads to the inadmissibility of the void; if movement is brought about only by contact
with other aspects of the substance étendue, the presence of a void in the system would
eventually lead movement to stop. Without the void, no aspect of this world may be said
to be independent or capable of being isolated from its context. Like the people
11
René Descartes, Les Principes de la philosophie, in Œuvres philosophiques, ed. by
Alquié, III, 91-525 (p. 502). Further references to this edition will be given after
quotations in the text.
10 designated by the pronouns in the novel, the objects comprising this world shade into
each other and eventually determine each other’s manifestations.12
The result, in both Descartes and Madame de Lafayette, is what the latter calls an
‘agitation sans désordre’, where no one element of this world is able to impose itself on
the parts that surround it -- we return to the world without will or transcendence so
beautifully described by Doubrovsky and, later, Laurence Gregorio.13 From the opening
12
Joan DeJean calls attention to this ‘obsessive trait’ of Lafayette’s style, ‘the elimination
of proper names and their replacement with third-person pronouns that take on some of
the elusiveness of free-floating signifiers’, which was also noted by Valincour. DeJean
goes on to note that ‘these incompletely anchored pronouns work against the principle of
difference, as characters seem almost interchangeable’. Joan DeJean, ‘The Privileges of
Anonymity’, in An Inimitable Example: The Case for the Princesse de Clèves, ed. by
Patrick Henry (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 1992), pp.
39-70 (pp. 53-54).
13
Moving from Doubrovsky’s analysis, Gregorio speaks eloquently of the interplay
between passive and active in the novel, especially with regard to historical determinism,
‘wherein history calls on the character to study history and to accept its fixed model,
while society and the world beckon to the character to define for herself what it is that
she will become’. Laurence A. Gregorio, Order in the Court: History and Society in ‘La
Princesse de Clèves’ (Saratoga, CA: ANMA Libri, 1986), p. 102. Although I will argue
that the novel goes further in interrogating the possibility of will in an embodied society
(and therefore that self-definition is well-nigh impossible), Gregorio’s analysis brings out
some of the weight, historical and otherwise, bearing down on the members of this world.
11 pages of the novel, its characters -- even the king and the various queens -- are placed in
the realm of passion and reaction, with all attempts to trace events back to a first cause or
clear intent frustrated. The thick atmosphere of the court, which is not without
resemblance to the tourbillons characterizing Descartes’s physical universe, pushes and
pulls the characters, sometimes in such opposite directions that immobility ensues. This is
the case of poor Sancerre, who is flummoxed by the proof of his dead mistress’s
infidelity, and, later (in almost identical terms) of the princess herself, faced with the
duke’s oblique declaration of love: ‘Elle croyait devoir parler, et croyait ne devoir rien
dire. Le discours de Monsieur de Nemours lui plaisait et l’offensait quasi également’ (p.
128). Of course, in the oppressive thickness of the novel’s material atmosphere, all
attempts to influence events, like the letter that falls from the Vidame’s pocket or the
actions that are described as ‘sans dessein’ or the result of being ‘entraîné malgré soi’, are
détournés, caught up in the vortices of the passionate force fields between the characters;
as in Descartes’s universe, unproblematic action along a straight line remains in the realm
of the ideal.14 This is, once again, because the court society portrayed in the novel is an
essentially and unavoidably embodied world. Although physical objects as such are few
and far between, the characters that populate this world, like the immobilized Cartesian
body prey to astonishment, themselves tend to shade into objects. They react to one
another almost exclusively through what Descartes would call ‘bodily accidents’ -- either
beauty or other passions (which are, as Descartes himself reminds us, themselves
14
This détournement is, as critics such as Joan DeJean have noted, also mirrored in the
novel’s style. Quite often, paragraphs meander seemingly randomly from one subject to
another, as events or characters blend into and influence each other.
12 reactions). In this context, the characters do, as Donna Kuizenga notes, struggle for ‘self
and autonomy’, but this is less a struggle for a self that pre-exists the novel’s events and
more an attempt either simultaneously and accurately to read the world of which one is a
part, or to escape this world entirely (an absolute escape that implies, as the end of the
novel indicates, conclusions that cannot be expressed, seen, or used).15
If action and change in this world cannot be initiated by the characters, from
where do they come? While Descartes is able to posit a divine cause of all movement, I
agree with Doubrovsky that this optimistic transcendence is absent from the novel. Even
the king, Henri II, is described not in terms of will or sovereignty, but, as Laurence
Gregorio has noted in his reading of the text’s first paragraph, in terms of passion. His
route to the throne, however, provides us with the beginnings of an answer to the
question of the source of change in the novel. Raised in the shadow of his brother,
François (whom François I clearly preferred), he becomes dauphin only after his
brother’s unexpected death, a tragedy which the novel describes rather acidly on the first
page, describing the Dauphin (i.e., François) as a ‘prince que sa naissance et ses grandes
qualities destinaient à remplir dignement la place du Roi François premier, son père’ (p.
69). Henri II’s fortuitous accession foreshadows the process through which the Prince de
Clèves becomes free to marry the princess. Death removes one of the bodies from the
tightly interconnected chain of relations described above, and other bodies and forces
rush in to take its place and to profit from the reconfiguration. This process is, of course,
quite clearly rendered and brought into focus after Henri II’s accidental death in the
15
Donna Kuizenga, ‘The Princesse de Clèves: An Inimitable Model?’, in An Inimitable
Example, pp. 71-83.
13 ‘duel’, but other momentous deaths (that of Sancerre’s mistress, that of the princess’s
mother, that of Queen Elizabeth’s father) also occasion sharp turns in the novel’s plot. It
is logical that in this highly and almost exclusively embodied world, death, as the
inevitable consequence of the human self’s corporality (a consequence that, notably,
escapes the will), would become the privileged source of change.
But what of the princess herself? As critics such as Michael Koppisch and MarieOdile Sweetser have noted, she struggles (at first with the help of her mother) to avoid
becoming just another interchangeable, if beautiful, aspect of the substance étendue
surrounding her.16 Her most notable effort at distinction, the aveu to her husband,
represents an attempt to impose a willed, original action upon a world in which such
actions are all but impossible. Unsurprisingly, it backfires. Not only is it overheard (once
again, giving an example of an action whose consequences escape the intent of its
author), but also the confession merely has the effect of marking her and making her even
more vulnerable and visible than before, in a world where visibility and autonomy are far
from synonymous.
However, if we accept that, in the world described by Madame de Lafayette,
death is the only possible source of change, the true turning point of the novel is the
Prince de Clèves’s disappearance, and the true ‘solution’ that offers itself to the princess
lies in her reaction to his demise. Unlike the other deaths in the story, the prince’s death
is directly caused by passion; it is as if he suffocates under the weight of the novel’s
16
See Michael S. Koppisch, ‘The Princesse de Clèves’s Will to Order’, in An Inimitable
Example, pp. 195-208, and Marie-Odile Sweetser, ‘In Search of Selfhood: The Itinerary
of the Princesse de Clèves’, in An Inimitable Example, pp. 209-224.
14 atmosphere. The prince himself views his impending death in the same light as the other
deaths that occur in the novel -- as an absolute absence that will soon be forgotten and
filled with new alliances and passions. As he says to his wife, ‘Mais ma mort vous
laissera en liberté, et vous pourrez rendre Monsieur de Nemours heureux, sans qu’il vous
en coûte des crimes. Qu’importe ce qui arrivera quand je ne serai plus, et faut-il que j’aie
la faiblesse d’y jeter les yeux?’ (p. 218).
Yet the princess, famously and tragically, refuses to allow other emotions, people,
or thoughts to occupy the place of her dead spouse. She invokes his memory repeatedly
in her final conversation with the Duke de Nemours, a procedure which the duke,
significantly, finds quite curious, if not incomprehensible, objecting ‘il n’y a point
d’obstacle…. Vous seule vous opposez à mon bonheur; vous seule vous imposez une loi
que la vertu et la raison ne vous sauraient imposer’ (p. 233). Not only does she refuse the
duke’s logic, but her decision to keep and cultivate the memory of her husband intensifies
during the last pages of the novel: ‘A mesure qu’elle était éloignée de Monsieur de
Nemours et de tout ce qui l’en pouvait faire souvenir, elle rappelait la mémoire de
Monsieur de Clèves, qu’elle se faisait un honneur de conserver’ (p. 236). Preserving the
phantomlike body of the prince allows the princess to achieve a kind of transcendence on
the terms of the world she inhabits, a transcendence that, by redefining what constitutes a
body and by creating a space in the substance étendue that is both more and less than
material, slightly alters the rules by which this universe operates, all without violating
that world’s (and the novel’s) cohesion. The duke’s reproach to the princess, ‘vous seule
vous imposez une loi que la vertu et la raison ne vous sauraient imposer’, is correct. What
the princess is doing escapes reason, and therefore has a chance of succeeding in a
15 universe where reason is only of minimal efficacy. By preserving her husband’s place in
the world, she is able to escape, at least partially, the pressing immediacy of the passions
that surround her.
Les pensées de la mort lui avaient rapproché la mémoire de Monsieur de Clèves.
Ce souvenir, qui s’accordait à son devoir, s’imprima fortement dans son coeur.
Les passions et les engagements du monde lui parurent tels qu’ils paraissent aux
personnes qui ont des vues plus grandes et plus éloignées’ (pp. 237-38).
By remembering her husband with such insistence, the princess has, in a sense, created an
object that is strong enough to impress itself (s’imprimer) upon her heart, and, by
implication, upon the world that she inhabits. She does this not through a transcendent,
free, or sovereign act of will, but rather by conserving the memory of her husband; her
action consists not in original creation (an act she attempted through the aveu), but rather
through conservation. In this manner, her ‘solution’ mirrors, in significant ways, Madame
de Lafayette’s own positioning of her work between fact and fiction and of herself
between anonymity and authorship. All of these elements implicitly recognize that the
new and original are not only tremendously problematic, but that, in the framework
outlined by Descartes and referenced by the text, they paralyse the reader/observer and
preclude understanding and thought.17
17
Indeed, the preoccupation of critics, from the seventeenth century to this day, with the
seductive novelty of the aveu (which is, once again, a failed strategy) bears out this
theory.
16 Through her preservation of a space between life and death, between the ethereal
and the material, the princess is able to achieve, in turn, a ghostlike existence between
presence and absence, between her home and the ‘maison religieuse’, beyond the reach of
the inexorable laws of nature that govern the object world and that render almost every
action described in the novel the echo of a previous action. Her achievement is all the
more striking given the reader’s awareness that, in the fifteen years following the events
of the novel, nearly all of its nonfictional characters will be dead -- many prematurely,
during the wars of religion.18 In evoking this society of ghosts, Madame de Lafayette
implicitly demands of the reader that she perform the same humanizing act of memory as
the heroine, preserving the space occupied by these figures during the course of their
lives, or at the very least, reflecting on what is lost when that space disappears. In so
doing, she offers a theory of what constitutes humanity -- a humanity in which body and
soul are reconciled, rather than in sometimes violent opposition -- that is more nuanced
and less absolute than that of Descartes.
University of Illinois, Chicago
18
For a wonderful reading of the relation of the characters in the novel to French history
and the religious wars, one which also notes the play of the named and unnamed in the
text, see Louise K. Horowitz, ‘Primary Sources: La Princesse de Clèves’, French Forum,
25 (2000), 165-75.