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to ELH
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Broad Church.6 For Lucy, as for F. D. Maurice, Christianity consists almost entirely in the-belief in an omnipotent and loving God
who will redeem all sinners:
a mercy beyond human compassions, a Love stronger than this
strong death ... a Pity which redeems worlds-nay, absolves
Priests.7
For someone who accepts only a few doctrines as necessary articles of Christian belief, the evil of Rome lies not so much in the
falsity of its teaching-although Lucy finds more serious "faults of
form" in Catholicism than in any of the Protestant sects-as in the
unjustifiable tyranny of its claim to doctrinal authority.8 The
Church of Rome elevates what Lucy dismisses as "form" to the
status of dogma. In so doing, it imposes on its adherents beliefs
which, not being "vital doctrines," ought to be left a matter of
individual conscience. For Lucy, this insistence on uniformity of
belief is incomprehensible fanaticism: "Strange! I had no such feverish wish to turn him from the faith of his fathers" (607). More
important, it represents a blasphemous confusion between human
systems and divine law: "A thousand ways were opened with pain
. . .and all for what? That a Priesthood might march straight on"
(609).
In short, while distrust of ecclesiastical authority is common to
most nineteenth-century Protestant sects, Lucy's Broad Church
bias gives peculiar prominence to institutional tyranny. For her,
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press her letters to Dr. John. Indeed, the text of Villette is itself
arguably such a subverted confession, a letter addressed to all
readers and no reader, which speaks but does not have to hear a
reply. In any case, the drama of Lucy's relation to others is that of
an ongoing resistance both to the temptation of the confessional
and to the power embodied in the confessor.
What is not often noted is that Lucy's refusal to confess is an
explicitly Protestant act. In resisting the power of society, she is
simultaneously showing herself a worthy member of the English
community from which she has fled. Consider, for example, the
following passage:
These struggles with the natural character, the strong native
bent of the heart, may seem futile and fruitless, but in the end
they do good. They . .. make a difference in the general tenor
of a life, and enable it to be better regulated, more equable,
quieter on the surface; and it is on the surface only the common
gaze will fall. As to what lies below, leave that with God. Man,
your equal, weak as you, and not fit to be your judge, may be
shut out thence: take it to your Maker-show Him the secrets
'of the spirit He gave.
(255)
us-"take it to your Maker." Her phrasing expresses the Protestant alternative to the practice of confession: the doctrine of the
824 Anti-Catholicism and Villette
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Fair), content only so long as she is isolated from her "equals" and
can exact homage from a people she views as innately inferior.
Rather, her contradictory role has value both as a narrative structure and as a psychological strategy, in that it makes visible the
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she is exactly what Lucy Snowe ought to be and from the vantage
point of unimpeachable virtue looks down with ill-disguised contempt on a community blind to her merits. The role English society creates for Lucy is that of rebellious martyr to the cause of
virtue-rebellious because despite the mysteriously imposed
burden of loneliness she refuses to give in to her culture and participate actively in the role of companion; martyr to the cause of
virtue because despite the temptation to degrade herself and confess her needs she remains self-contained.
The same culture, however, which creates this role for her, simultaneously obliterates it from view. The role of stoic martyr can
be enacted only for an audience that sees in the very circumstances against which the heroine struggles the pain and suffering
she nobly represses in her actions. One cannot perceive the rebellion implicit in Lucy's withdrawal, unless one first recognizes her
loneliness as a torment that threatens to reduce her to the unsatisfying dependency of her relation to Miss Marchmont. One cannot
perceive the strength of will implicit in her continued self-restraint
unless one first understands the temptation she feels to scream out
her anger'and need and degrade herself in the eyes both of herself
and of her culture. Lucy's society understands neither of these
forces. It accepts the loneliness, deprivation and self-sufficiency of
the single woman as a normal, possibly regrettable, but certainly
far from tragic state of affairs. For the Brettons, neither Lucy's
circumstances nor her response to those circumstances is exceptional.
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made for our faith: depend upon it our faith alone could heal and
help you" (227). Lucy's very inactivity and distance from the com-
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of Mme. Beck, the burial of her letters and her love with the
burial of the nun in the garden, the ugliness of her life with the
ugliness of "La Vie d'une Femme."
Beyond these nightmarish resemblances, there is the more terrifying difference between Protestant and Catholic culture. Lucy's
struggle for liberty makes sense only in the context of a society that
actively tries to thwart that liberty in the immoral cause of human
tyranny. The Protestants in the novel show no sign of trying to
tamper with Lucy's independence. Indeed, their constant care is
to restore her to quiet, calm self-sufficiency. One of the most
poignant scenes in the novel is the scene in the public gardens
where Lucy hovers behind the Brettons, hugging to herself the
irony that
little knew they the rack of pain which had driven Lucy almost
into fever, and brought her out, guideless and reckless, urged
and drugged to the brink of frenzy.
(660)
The fact is the Brettons have no desire to know. Unlike Pere Silas
they do not wish to plumb the depths of Lucy's soul. Lucy's drama
of non-confession does not place her in any relation to the Protestant society that has buried her. She is tilting at windmills. Her
impulse to rebel remains a pathetic fantasy of what she would do if
Dr. John tried to interfere with her privacy, which he will not.
I implied, by a sort of supplicatory gesture, that it was my
me by a glance.
(661)
community that visibly espouses the cause of liberty is the authority of God. God is the original cause of her isolation at the time
of her metaphorical shipwreck. God intervenes in a literal enact-
ment of the metaphor to rob her of M. Paul. God dispenses happiness to Paulina and misery to Lucy. Lucy's response to divine fiat
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is that of Job: "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away;
blessed be the name of the Lord" (Job 1:21).
Thus, paradoxically, while the Villette sequences make visible
the sources of Lucy's oppression and the heroism of her resistance,
they fail to express the real horror of her circumstances- the invisibility of her oppressors and the impossibility of resistance. That
horror is expressed in the way the plot collapses on itself. Lucy's
anti-Catholic fictions have power only so long as they recreate the
hopelessness of her relation to English society and the inevitability
of her martyrdom. As long as Catholic society is responsible for
her misery she can rebel with impunity, confident that her sufferings are morally explicable. Each time her Catholic opponents
are defeated, on the other hand, when the convent-bred Ginevra
loses the love of Dr. John or when the secret junta is overcome,
Lucy returns to her original situation-a misery that can no longer
be attributed to the evil of Catholicism and against which, therefore, she is powerless to rebel.
Lucy's insertion into the Protestant-Catholic debate is complex.
In her relation to the Church of Rome, she takes her stand on the
synonymity of Protestantism and liberty. She opposes to the tyranny of a priesthood the right of the individual to self-determination. Her rebellion, however, is simultaneously an active conformity to the institutional strictures of Protestant society. The individualism she opposes to the Catholic practice of confession
sanctions the isolation of single women in English society; the selfrespect she opposes to Catholic degradation sanctions the self-effacement forced on her by English standards of ladylike behavior.
Anti-Catholic propaganda supplies Bronte with a narrative structure through which to represent her heroine's posture of resistance. The dissonance between the terms Protestantism and protest allows her to call into question the tidy pattern she herself has
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based, confession, are ways not only of failing to cure error, but of
actively nurturing vice. The substitution of outward discipline for
the inner voice of conscience, characteristic of the discipline of the
convent school and, on a larger scale, of the discipline exercised by
the priesthood, actually stifles the development of self-restraint.
The penitent, lulled by the false security of an absolution in which
his conscience has no part, and taught to view repentence as the
empty performance of outward acts of contrition, is cut off from
the possibility of genuine reform.
In Margaret Percival, for example, the heroine, a budding Puseyite, permits her younger sister to keep a diary of her faults
which is shown nightly to Margaret. The purpose of the ritual is to
help the young girl reform. In practice, however, as Margaret discovers, the diary hampers moral development. The child, relieved
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of her feelings of guilt by the nightly act of confession, takes Margaret's forgiveness as a license to continue in her slothful ways.
Similarly, the student's at Mme. Beck's confess monthly "J'ai
menti plusiers fois," utterly "untroubled by the rebuke of conscience" (114). Confession and surveillance take the place of conscience, and ensure a permanent moral turpitude.
The scene in the picture gallery reveals the function from Lucy's
point of view of this system of moral suffocation. The Cleopatra is a
reflection of the placid, fleshy La Bassecouriennes Lucy encounters at the school. "La vie d'une femme" is an expression both
of the hypocritical facade imposed on them by external discipline,
and of the imprisonment towards which, despite the apparent license of their upbringing, they are being led like lambs to the
slaughter. The relation between the two pictures is that of surveillance to corruption. 19
To the Catholic men who view her, the vapid, sensuality of the
Cleopatra is appealing. Moreover, as M. Paul's insistence that only
married women be permitted to view the picture makes clear
(228), that sensuality is assumed to lie hidden in every female
breast. Virgins must not be exposed to the temptation of a vice
that the system of education to which they have been subjected
has carefully failed to correct. The ugliness of "La vie d'une
femme," then, is expressive both of the excess of external constraint necessary to control women whose Cleopatra-like vice has
never been cured, and of the way in which the very externality of
that restraint is exploited to nurture the inner corruption of the
male sensualist's dream.
The Protestant response to this system of exploitation is aptly
represented by Lucy's attitudes to the pictures. Armed with the
rectitude of conscience created by the Protestant church's emphasis on self-discipline, Lucy denies the putative identity between herself and the Cleopatra. She regards with mild contempt
a portrait of female sensuality so tempting to Catholic eyes that
only married women may see it. This demonstration that she has
been cured of vice frees her in turn to reject the surveillance sym-
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distinction between priestly constraint and the self-imposed restraint of conscience, Lucy's alter-ego. Lucy describes her in the
following terms:
This was not an opaque vase, of material however costly, but a
lamp chastely lucent, guarding from extinction, yet not hiding
from worship, a flame vital and vestal.
(395)
Paulina does not need to hide behind the "opaque" surface of La
Bassecourienne hypocrisy. She need not hide her flame from worship. Rather her chastity is seen as "guarding from extinction"
what exposure to the leering eyes of the La Bassecouriens men
Lucy's worthiness is thus no longer sufficient to explain her isolation. Her inability to find love appears not as the proper adjunct of
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The Cinderella figure of Jane Eyre has split in two. The beautiful
Paulina goes on to marry the prince, and Lucy is left behind in the
kitchen, less able than ever to explain her drudgery.
The second anti-Catholic plot, the conspiracy plot, abandons the
covert assumption of the first that Lucy could submit to "La vie
d'une femme" if she wished, and expresses instead the nightmare
that has called that assumption into question since the first appear-
ance of the nun in the attic. This is the terror that her difference
from Paulina is predetermined, that should she confess, make visible her need for love and assume the robe rose of the woman
willing to be courted, she will be rewarded not with marriage, but
with rejection and imprisonment.
The structure of this second fiction is more complex than that of
the first. Once again we will find Lucy cast in the role of heroic
martyr, struggling to maintain her virtue at the cost of isolation
and suffering. Whereas the rivalry plot creates this role through
the simple expedient of situating Lucy in a society inimical to
virtue, the conspiracy plot also projects onto that society the
hidden tyranny of the English community with which the Lucy of
the rivalry plot identifies herself. In the context of the conspiracy
plot, the confessional becomes a mask for Protestant repression,
and Lucy's determination to "shut man out" a hidden rebellion
against the strictures of English society.
The scene in the picture gallery discovers a more troubling relation between Lucy's Protestant role and the foreign world against
which she sets her face than the opposition between virtue and
corruption already noted. There is a nightmarish resemblance between the Cleopatra and "La vie d'une femme" on the one hand,
and Lucy's own inner world of reason and imagination on the
other. This is not to say that the Cleopatra is a valid image of the
self Lucy restrains. Lucy's own metaphors for imagination suggest
a sexuality that transcends the mere physicality of the lady of the
portrait. The recurring image of fire, like the image of light im-
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in the picture gallery that within every lady there lurks a coquette.
With M. Paul, Lucy can reveal her sexuality through symbols that
are, in her own culture, consistent with sexual purity-a lace
collar, a pale pink dress subdued by a black shawl. Thus when her
motives are misread as coquetry, she is still, in her own mind,
guiltless, and can resist the false accusation with all the fires of her
nature.
degrading herself in her own eyes and being punished for her degradation with permanent rejection.
The novel makes visible the horror of Lucy's situation and frees
her temporarily from the paralysis it enforces, by projecting onto
the Catholic Church Dr. John's role as punisher. The structure of
the projection, as Donald D. Stone points out, is that of paranoia.2' Consider, for example, the incident in which, in the view of
psychoanalytic critics, Bronte confronts for the first time the psychological origin of her sufferings-Lucy's visit to the castle of
Malevola. According to Robert Keefe, Lucy's fear that she will be
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punished if she confesses her need for love can be traced to guilt
feelings created in Bront6 by the early death of her mother and
sisters.22 The guilt associated with the death of loved ones, he
argues, forces the child to repress both her feelings of rivalry with
the mother) and her anger at the rejection by the mother that
rivalry seems to have called down. The result is a paralyzing fear of
persecution, a fear that rejection will be repeated should the child
ever assert herself again.
"You think then," I said, with secret horror, "she came out of
my brain, and is now gone in there, and may glide out again at
an hour and a day when I look not for her?"
(358)
Her "secret horror" is overcome when she discovers in the material world a figure who conforms to the symbolic demands of a
preconceived terror. Her nightmarish illusion is replaced by a real
rival, Justine Marie. In effect, Lucy's belief that she is persecuted
is justified by the appearance of the persecutor she feared. She has
always believed that she is being thwarted by "wicked things, not
human, which envy human bliss" (351). Dr. John and his twentieth-century counterparts see her fear as the product of hypochondria or neurosis. The event proves Lucy right. Her needs and
desires are being thwarted by a dead nun.
Just as Lucy's specific fear of the nun as rival is projected onto
Justine Marie, so the more nebulous fears of her relation to English society are projected onto the secret junta. 23 Thus the figure
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of Malevola, child-devourer and image of the punishment she expects at the hands of the Protestant community, gives way to reveal the machinations of Mme. Beck. Behind the smirking face of
the Dr. John who left her in the picture gallery to contemplate the
threatening Cleopatra, Lucy uncovers the more satisfying figure of
Pere Silas, who shows her pictures with the explicit intent of
thwarting and controlling her.
In order to understand Pere Silas's function in the novel and his
role as surrogate for the Protestant Dr. John, it is necessary to
examine an incident that has received little critical attention, the
priest's attempt to convert Lucy. As we would expect, Lucy's defeat of Pere Silas is symbolically a defeat of her mother-rival, Malevola. Helen Moglen points out that in resisting conversion, Lucy
resists a purely passive marital role, the role expressed by the relation of the believer to the mother-church, and the child to the
mother-tyrant.24 Yet the priest also represents a more devastating
threat than that of passive submission to mother or husband, the
threat that should Lucy convert, surrender her independence to
the power of the confessor, she will be rewarded not with marriage
but with imprisonment.
The chapter entitled "The Apple of Discord" is a ritual drama
controlled by the conventions of Victorian anti-Catholic literature.
Every phase of Pere Silas's struggle to "pervert" Lucy to Rome
from his attempt to seduce her affections with the seemingly innocent pamphlet (598-99), through his attacking her in the person of
M. Paul with the diabolical powers of Jesuit reasoning (606), to his
holding out the temptations of Rome, pomp (609), good works
(608), and the comfort of praying for souls in Purgatory (598)-has
its place in an oft-repeated pattern whose threatened end the Victorian reader would recognize. Conversion plots are seldom concerned solely with the danger of spiritual destruction; rather, Catholicism is seen as a threat to the natural, English, Protestant
fulfillment of marriage, children, and service to the community.
The priest converts in order to separate lovers, imprison them in
celibacy, and gain their wealth for the Church.
Father Eustace, in a plot which has suggestive affinities with the
situation of M. Paul, offers the most demonic version of this
drama. In Frances Trollope's novel, the Jesuit General sends Father Eustace to a wealthy young woman, and instructs him to convert her without revealing that he is a priest. The hope is that,
having already fallen in love with her spiritual director, she will
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have no choice but to enter a nunnery and leave her fortune to the
Church. Similarly, M. Paul's love for a dead nun has been kept
alive by Pere Silas so that he will lead a monastic life and devote
his wealth to the interests of the secret junta.
The danger Lucy faces should she succumb to the blandishments of the priest is that she herself describes when she first
exposes herself to the "surveillance of a sleepless eye" at the
"mystic lattice" (592) of the confessional:
Had I visited Numero 3, Rue des Mages, at the hour and day
appointed, I might just now, instead of writing this heretic narrative, be counting my beads in the cell of a certain Carmelite
convent on the Boulevard of Crecy in Villette.
(228)
The association of the power of the priesthood with sexual deprivation and imprisonment represents a revision in Lucy's apparent
understanding of the doctrinal quarrels between Catholicism and
Protestantism. Symbolically, this shift is most clearly revealed in
the difference between the Cleopatra and the painting of Justine
Marie. In the former scene, the pure English lady looks with disdain on a captive Catholic, enslaved by men through her failure to
restrain her own sinful nature. In the latter, the fiery Protestant
regards with contempt a placid Catholic enslaved by men through
her willingness to let others restrain her impulses. To put it in
doctrinal terms, in the former case the evil of the confessional is its
failure to restrain impulses conscience would condemn, in the
latter, its ability to restrain impulses conscience would approve. It
would be inaccurate to say that the novel reverses its understanding of confession half way through. From the beginning,
symbols like the saints' lives and the nun in the attic associate
Catholicism with sexual repression. In the latter stages of the
novel, the association of Catholicism with brutish sensuality persists. Indeed, the two views of the confessional are not mutally
exclusive. For Lucy, self-indulgence and imprisonment are associated images, as are self-control and the freedom to love. Nevertheless, there is a shift in emphasis. The rivalry plot turns on the
contrast between the righteous, if lonely, Protestant and the
slothful, if beloved, Catholics. The conspiracy plot turns on the
contrast between the free if lonely Protestant and the imprisoned,
more lonely Catholic.
This new relation to Catholicism, as I have suggested, is a pro-
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refuses to confess, she will win neither lover nor hatred; Pere Silas
will simply cut her off from M. Paul. If she confesses she will be
rewarded with permanent isolation.
The cultural displacement of the projection, however, transforms the paralysis enforced by the unimpressibility of Protestant
society into noble resistance. In part, this transformation is effected simply by making visible what is otherwise hidden. The
Lucy who curls herself into a ball to await the arrival of spring
forms conscience from a source of conformity into a force for rebellion. The resemblance between Lucy and the nun of the portrait
expresses the resemblance between the view of feminine propriety that governs her actions and the view that controls the convent. The difference between the two reveals the existance of the
inner world that Lucy's Protestant liberty of conscience protects.
Thus in place of a Lucy passively accepting the duty of self-censorship imposed on her by standards of womanly behavior she shares
with Dr. John, we find a Lucy valiantly protecting her freedom of
imagination. The novel has restored her to her role of martyr to
the cause of virtue and liberty.
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2 Bronte's familiarity with most of the religious novels of the day is doubtful. She
certainly read Charles Kingsley's Yeast and The Saint's Tragedy, and Froude's Nemesis of Faith. See The Brontis: Their Lives, Friendships and Correspondence, eds.
Thomas J. Wise and John Alexander Symington (Oxford: Shakespeare Head Press,
1933), 3:268-69, 27. She mentions Dinah Marie Mulock, the author of Olive, which
Robert Lee Wolff describes as providing "perhaps the earliest example of loss of faith"
in the novel. See Correspondence, 3:284; Robert Lee Wolff, Gains and Losses (New
York: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1977), 420. She asks Miss Margaret Wooler in a letter
whether she has read The Experience of Life by Elizabeth Sewell (Correspondence,
4:99). Miss Wooler was an intimate friend of the Sewells. See Clement Shorter, The
Brontes and their Circle (London: J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd., 1914), 241. It seems
possible, then, that Bronte may as well have been familiar with Sewell's Margaret
Percival. (The Experience of Life was not published until 1853). Despite the uncertainty as to what other novels Bronte might have read, my view of Brontb's anti-Catholicism depends heavily upon contemporary fiction, both because I believe Bront6's
religious thought has more in common with the theologically vague popular novels of
the day than with more philosophical discussions, and because the plot similarities
between Villette and contemporary works of fiction are too obvious to be ignored.
3 See Robert Bernard Martin, The Accents of Persuasion (London: Faber and Faber,
1966), 148; Nina Auerbach, "Charlotte Brontb: The Two Countries," University of
Toronto Quarterly 42 (1973): 336; Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar, The Madwoman in the Attic (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1979), 405; and Robert Keefe,
Charlotte Bronte's World of Death (Austin: Univ. of Texas Press, 1979), 162.
4 Gilbert and Gubar, 414.
5 Richard Offor, "The Brontes-Their Relations to the History and Politics of their
Time," Bronte' Society Transactions 10 (1943): 157.
6 Sarah Moore Putzell, "Rights, Reason and Redemption: Charlotte Bront6's Neo-
Platonism," Victorian Newsletter 55 (1979): 5. Not only did BrontO, as Putzell points
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out, express admiration for F D. Maurice, she also spoke favorably of other Broad
Church thinkers: Dr. Arnold, Kingsley, and Julius and Augustus Hare. See Correspondence, 3:177-79, 268-69, 20.
7Charlotte Brontie, Villette, eds. Herbert Rosengarten and Margaret Smith (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1984), 609. All subsequent references are to this edition. Compare
Bronte's statement with that by F. D. Maurice in "Waiting for Christ," Sermons in
Country Churches (London: Macmillan and Co., 1880), 33. "They found that there
was a love stronger than the evil that was in them, stronger than the evil that was in
their brethren-one which could convert the most rebellious to itself." For Maurice,
the Atonement was "the fact of the Gospel." See the Preface to the Second Edition, in
Theological Essays (Cambridge: Macmillan & Co., 1853), xxiii. Lucy seems more concerned with the idea of mercy than with Christ's Atonement. Nevertheless, the
common faith that she and M. Paul find underlying different Christian creeds is that
which Maurice considered central: "God be merciful to me, a sinner" (Villette, 611).
8 Lucy's term '"form" includes, I believe, more than liturgical practice. Implicit in
the distinction between "vital doctrines" and "faults of form" is the assumption that
the theological differences among the various denominations are differences of form.
9 Colby, 184.
10 George Henry Lewes, "The Pope, or Free Thought?" in The Leader, November
9, 1850.
11 Gilbert and Gubar, 400.
12 See Helen Moglen, Charlotte Brontfi: The Self Conceived (W W. Norton and
Co., Inc., 1976), 209; Judith A. Plotz, "Potatoes in a Cellar": Charlotte Bront6's Villette and the Feminized Imagination," Journal of Women's Studies in Literature 1
(1979): 83; and Gilbert and Gubar, 415.
13 Gilbert and Gubar, 423.
14 Plotz, 74.
15 Terry Eagleton, Myths of Power (London: The MacMillan Press, Ltd., 1975),
61-74.
16 Plotz, 80.
22 Keefe, xiii-xiv.
23 Eagleton, 90.
24 Moglen, 215-19.
25 Keefe, 162.
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