Institutionalizing Gender

Front matter

Institutionalizing Gender

Madness, the Family,

and Psychiatric Power in Nineteenth-Century France

CHAPTER 6 Reforming the Asylum and Reimagining the Family 141 CONCLUSION The “Mad” Woman ina Man’s World 166

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing a scholarly monograph is a labor of love, but it is also labor. I would have never completed this book without the privilege of full-time employment. It was only after several years as a contingent faculty member that I secured a tenure-track job and with it, the financial security and time to work on this book. I am grateful to have had the chance to complete it at all. Acknowledging the luck involved in my being able to do so seems both obvious and necessary.

Tam thrilled to thank those who supported me over the years, beginning with Ted Margadant at the University of California, Davis. Ted is extremely knowledgeable and endlessly curious. Our many hours of conversation have shaped my thinking about French history in countless ways, and I will always be grateful for his willingness to supervise work so thematically distinct from his own. Catherine Kudlick likewise left her mark on this project, introducing me to disability history and serving as an inspiring example of how to mesh scholarly priorities with political ones. I have also been lucky to have Edward Ross Dickinson as a reader, sounding board, mentor, and friend. More recently Kathleen Feeley has proven a most generous departmental colleague at the University of Redlands, reading and commenting on my entire manuscript, not to mention welcoming me from the moment I arrived on campus.

Many individuals have helped clarify the arguments presented in this book. Some of my first readers include Liz Covart, Alison Steiner, and Shelley Brooks. I will always think fondly of my time spent talking about history with Robyn Douglas and Kim Hogeland. Andrew Denning sat with me though many a seminar and has offered extremely useful feedback on this project. I have also presented parts of this book at numerous conferences, including the Society for French Historical Studies and the Western Society for French History, where I’ve been fortunate to find colleagues who have become friends. I would like to single out Andrew Israel Ross, Sun-Young Park, Naomi Andrews, Jo Burr Margadant, Nina Kushner, Rachel Chrastil, Denise Davidson, Anne Verjus, Stephen Harp, Jonathyne Briggs, Aude Fauvel, and Jann Matlock for offering generous comments at just the right time.

x Acknowledgments

My editor at Cornell, Emily Andrew, has been a dream to work with, as has acquisitions assistant Alexis Siemon. I thank them both for all they have done to bring this project to fruition, as well as the two anonymous readers whose comments have transformed this work so much for the better. I am also grateful to the Mellon Foundation. Their grant in support of the Sustainable History Monograph Pilot has made this work accessible to more readers than I ever imagined possible. A version of Chapter 3 originally appeared in “Women Working ‘Amidst the Mad’: Domesticity as Psychiatric Treatment in Nineteenth-Century Paris,” French Historical Studies 38, no. 1 (2015): 105-137. Part of Chapter 4 was first published in “Married to the ‘living dead’: madness as a cause for divorce in late nineteenth-century France,” Contemporary French Civilisation 40, no. 3 (2015): 311-330.

I have likewise been lucky to receive indispensable research support from the Department of History, the College of Arts and Sciences, and the Institute for Women and Research at the University of California, Davis; the Institute for German and European Studies at the University of California, Berkeley; the Society for French Historical Studies; the Western Society for French History; the University of San Francisco; the University of Redlands; and the Rotary Foundation. Equally vital has been the work of librarians and archivists in France, especially those of the Bibliothèque Nationale, the Archives de l’Assistance Publique — Hôpitaux de Paris, the Archives de Paris, and the municipal archives at Saint-Mandé.

Finally, I would like to thank my family. My dad, Frank, is the most generous person I know. His sense of empathy inspires my approach to history and life. My mom, Kim, is my dearest friend. She introduced me to my first bits of historical knowledge watching Jeopardy! with me as child, and she continues to handily beat me at trivia on a regular basis. The support, creativity, and intelligence of my little brother, Matt, blows me away, as does the adorableness of my sweet niece Vedette. My husband, Brian, is equal parts smart and kind. He has read every word and listened to every rant, entertaining me and loving me all the while. I adamantly do not thank our cats. If they had their way, I would spend all my time feeding them, snuggling them, and allowing them to trot upon my keyboard.

Introduction

N 1840, THE ASYLUM DOCTOR Francois Leuret published an account of

what he considered the successful treatment of a particularly willful patient

named Dupré. The middle-aged man, a former army officer who found himself committed to a series of French mental institutions throughout the 1820s and 1830s, supposedly held onto a number of delusional thoughts and had not responded to the usual methods of treatment. He alternated between claiming that he was the Emperor Napoleon and the head of a “tartar clan’—a leader much renowned for his sexual prowess and for “constantly tasting the pleasures of love”! Furthermore, Dupré claimed he was the only man in the Bicétre asylum, having long insisted that the other patients, the employees, and even his doctors were actually women (some of whom, he conceded, wore masks and fake beards). The doctor, Leuret, took a special interest in this case, engaging his patient in strategically planned dialogues, punctuated with the threat of force, in order to convince the recalcitrant inmate to renounce his beliefs and reclaim his identity as the former soldier Dupré. Leuret defended his aggressive tactics against critics within the profession, implying that the ends justified the means. “Thad reason to celebrate my conviction,” he wrote, “because having begun the treatment of Monsieur Dupré on 15 June, 1838, he called me him and not her on the 2oth. On the 21st, he began to obey; on the 22nd, he worked the land and occupied himself that evening with reading.”*

At first glance, it would appear Leuret and his patient had very little in common. Dupré spent much of his life sequestered by French authorities for failing to live up to contemporary standards of rationality. Leuret, for his part, reached the height of his profession despite coming from a relatively humble background. One of these men was a postrevolutionary success story—a self-made bourgeois, the famous doctor son of a bread baker—while the other was a cautionary tale, a veteran officer of the Napoleonic Wars unable to thrive in the society he once called home. Yet their interactions, like so many that occurred inside the mental institutions of nineteenth-century France, reveal not only the creation of cruel new hierarchies but the constraints imposed on all Frenchmen, even those fortunate enough to find themselves on top. To be precise, the ability to adhere to fluctuating and sometimes contradictory gender expectations determined the fates of doctor and patient alike.

For Michel Foucault, the gender dimensions of Dupré’s experience were not worthy of note. When discussing this case at the Collège de France in 1973, Foucault focused on the ways in which Dupré’s treatment at Bicêtre produced and supported an imbalance of power in the doctor-patient relationship. Leuret’s actions showed how asylum doctors aimed to aggrandize their personal authority—both through violence and less overtly repressive means—in order to break down “the omnipotence of madness . . . by demonstrating a different, more vigorous will endowed with greater power.” Although there is much to be said for this argument, it also overstates the all-encompassing nature of psychiatric authority by taking Leuret too fully at his word. As we shall see, rereading the history of madness with an eye toward the inconsistencies inherent in gender, disability, and class ideologies often reveals the fragility of psychiatric power as much as its omnipotence. It also exposes the shaky foundations upon which dominant ideas about men, women, and irrationality rested over the course of the long nineteenth century.

Psychiatric treatment at this time regularly reflected the gender values associated with the French bourgeoisie, an occupationally diverse elite joined together through their adherence to particular cultural norms and a shared insistence that they owed their elevated social positions to merit rather than noble birth. Perhaps the most significant aspect of bourgeois class distinction was their promotion of the ideal of gendered separate spheres. Women were expected to focus their energies on the home while men held responsibility in the “outside” world owing to their supposedly superior sense of reason. This ideal rarely mapped onto the realities of daily life, but it nonetheless helped to justify its proponents’ social status. The actions of alienists—as specialists in mental medicine were called until the late 1800s—propped up separate spheres ideology by reifying assumed connections between masculinity and rationality and femininity with its opposite, most obviously by pathologizing gender nonconformity and framing the patient’s acceptance of gender norms as proof of cure (a tendency I have termed “institutionalizing gender”).

Challenges posed by mental patients to normative gender values were rarely as direct as Dupré’s fixation on his sexual prowess or his refusal to acknowledge the manliness of his caretakers. The exaggerated nature of his claims, however, and his doctor’s preoccupation with countering them, highlights the centrality of gender to all asylum interactions. Leuret depicted Dupré as irrational, yes, but he also emphasized the impropriety of his patient’s claim to have bedded numerous women because this obsession with sexual virility contradicted Leuret’s own class- and race-based notions of masculine self-control (recall that Dupré insisted he was not French, but a “tartar” leader instead). The patient’s “cure,” on the other hand, involved the expression of traits the doctor associated with a particularly nonthreatening form of masculine behavior (productively working during the day and calmly reading at night). With a circular logic, Leuret’s actions suggest rationality required conforming to certain gender expectations whereas masculinity meant the ability to appear rational. Furthermore, Dupré’s return to reason necessitated more than simply re-inscribing his own proper gender comportment. It also entailed affirming the gender identities of other rational men: Leuret’s first priority was to persuade Dupré to admit that the doctor himself was not a woman, despite his patient’s attachment to numerous other false beliefs.

Doctors in nineteenth-century France did not recognize a distinction between sex and gender. The idea that masculinity was a construct rather than a fact of nature would have struck them as absurd, as would the notion that Leuret’s actions constituted an attempt to “defend” or affirm his own identity as a man. Of all the people in Bicétre, the inmate Dupré came closest to acknowledging that sex and gender might be uncoupled, and this was taken as evidence of insanity by his doctor.’ It is nonetheless possible for historians to productively make use of such theorizations to analyze gender’s operation in the past. This is especially true for the nineteenth century, as evidence of the un-naturalness of bourgeois gender ideology increasingly rubbed up against “scientific” claims to the contrary in the decades preceding World War I, even inside institutional spaces that had long supported widespread assumptions about men and women’s purportedly natural roles. This book examines the transition from a world in which gender and sex appeared straightforward and uncomplicated to one in which this was not so much the case. Yet it also highlights the ways that medical understandings of gender and madness were always less assured than they might have seemed to those espousing them.

Psychiatric attempts to institutionalize gender had horrific consequences for those, such as Dupré, who did not fit the mold. Nonetheless, such efforts also drew attention to the malleability of gendered behaviors that most people at the time claimed were natural and permanent. Leuret highlighted the constructed nature of both gender and psychiatric disability by staging a precisely choreographed treatment scenario to convince Dupré to accept him as a man. He sought to return the patient to what Leuret considered a readily apparent gender order, but the treatment relied so heavily and so purposefully on the

À Introduction performative aspects of psychiatric care that he implied normative behavior was first and foremost an act. All clinical encounters in the asylum exposed this fundamental contradiction: the attempt to return patients back to “normal” highlighted the fact that there was no such thing.

This study therefore examines the workings of the asylum and its role in both the elaboration and deterioration of bourgeois gender values during France’s long nineteenth century, a period defined by the contested but steady advance of political liberalism, the social dislocations of industrialization and urbanization, and the seemingly triumphal professionalization of medicine. Each of these long-term processes were inflected by and had consequences for the emergence of new gender ideals promoted and embodied by the French bourgeoisie, as well as new conceptions of madness and rationality. Examining the historical interplay of these developments from the vantage point of the asylum reorients our understanding of the nineteenth century in three key ways. First, it disrupts popular understandings of psychiatric authority during the profession’s so-called golden age, showing how doctors were beholden to powerful gender expectations even as they benefited from them. At the same time, the ways asylum doctors used gender ideals such as masculine selfcontrol and feminine domesticity in the process of patient treatment also indicate that medicine regularly undermined these very norms in spite of itself, especially with respect to the widespread belief in the inherent rationality of men. Finally, and relatedly, considering gender and madness side by side situates the nineteenth century as a transitional moment in the history of the family, in which gendered conceptions of reason supplanted biological sex as the primary justification for masculine authority within the home and beyond.

Gendering Madness and Institutionalizing Gender

The treatment of the ex-soldier Dupré occurred in the 1830s, the apogee of a psychiatric method known as the moral treatment, so called because it emphasized the “moral” (i.e., mental) aspects of insanity. Developed by the physician and asylum director Philippe Pinel in the late eighteenth century and spread throughout the burgeoning psychiatric profession during the first half of the nineteenth, the moral treatment entailed the enactment of personalized and highly calculated interactions between doctors and patients inside specialized institutions for the insane.’ Few formal regulations existed in the first three decades of the nineteenth century regarding the operation of asylums or the procedures through which a person might find him- or herself interned. The influence of the moral treatment nonetheless grew during this period, and many of its tenets were eventually embedded in the national law on asylum commitment passed by French legislators in 1838. Although there were certainly disagreements among doctors as to how to best implement treatment inside asylum walls, particularly with respect to balancing the psychological and the somatic elements of care, most doctors before the 1850s believed the production of elaborate interactive scenes could help persuade patients to realign their behaviors and accept reality. The asylum’s staff performed the moral treatment by engaging the patient in premeditated dialogues meant to elicit a specific psychological response. This often meant providing emotional support, but it also involved trickery and intimidation.

The numbers of specialized French psychiatric institutions and patients treated therein rose precipitously between the start and the end of the century. According to Pinel’s student and colleague Jean-Etienne-Dominique Esquirol, there were eight asylums dedicated to the treatment of mental illness in France in 1818, with 5,153 patients in total. That figure rose to over 64,000 by 1899.’ This increase largely reflected the growth of the public asylum system, although there also existed numerous private institutions geared toward the needs of wealthy patients and their families (these were typically smaller, more intimate, and sometimes run by the same doctors who held positions in the public sector). The moral treatment remained influential throughout this time, in that both public and private asylum doctors proclaimed their allegiance to the teachings of Pinel and Esquirol.

The cutting edge of the profession, however, moved on by the second half of the nineteenth century, as it became clear that doctors had failed to cure the vast majority of the ever-growing numbers of asylum patients. It was not possible to truly perform the individualized regimen required by the moral treatment in large institutions in any case. The asylum system increasingly came to be viewed by critics as a solution in search of a problem, an excuse to aggrandize the power of doctors at the expense of those they labeled mad.’ Neurologists such as Jean-Martin Charcot eventually replaced alienists as the most innovative medical professionals dedicated to the treatment of disorders such as hysteria, and most doctors who continued to work in asylums turned toward biological, hereditary explanations for madness by the fin-de-siécle,'’ spelling the death knell of Pinel’s method once and for all.

Yet the rise and fall of the moral treatment is much more than a footnote in the history of psychiatry, a minor blip on the path toward our current focus on chemical solutions to psychological problems. Instead, its fate highlights the interdependency of gender and disability ideologies that characterized the birth of modernity in France.'* The emergent class society of the nineteenth century simultaneously provided new opportunities and imposed new limitations based on the perceived rationality of political and economic actors. As those who defined the boundary between lucidity and madness, asylum doctors played an essential—though by no means exclusive—role in the solidification and spread of pernicious class and gender assumptions that limited the opportunities of women and workers while elevating the status of bourgeois men. Indeed, their professional fortunes depended on their willingness to define irrationality in ways that gave credence to class-based ideals of masculinity and femininity—to justify the status quo by turning cultural constructs into supposed facts about human nature. Yet, despite causing great harm to the women and men ensnared by their efforts, doctors were never able to fix the definitions of femininity and masculinity (or even rationality) any more than they could resolve the numerous medical controversies that popped up in the pages of their professional journals. Instead, they revealed the nineteenth-century gender system to be a house of cards, built with care but always at risk of crashing down around its occupants.

Mental patients claiming to be people they were not proliferated in postrevolutionary France. Laure Murat has written about other men who, like Dupré, thought they were Napoleon, using this time- and place-bound manifestation of mental illness to ask big questions about the relationship between madness, psychiatry, and its historical contexts. She wonders, “What does madness make of history?” and concludes that the content of delusions—along with evolving interpretations of them—both shaped and were shaped by politics in nineteenth-century France." I ask, in turn: What does madness make of gender? Did shifting conceptions of madness and rationality inform the development of gender norms, and vice versa? How did understandings of masculinity and femininity affect the behaviors of doctors and their patients? And what does the relationship between gender and madness reveal about the expansion and the subversion of medical, masculine, and bourgeois power?

Previous scholarship weighs heavily on the history of French psychiatry: Foucault, in particular, casts a long shadow. His early work on the “Great Confinement” of the seventeenth century, in which he argued the mad were institutionalized en masse alongside paupers and criminals, has been criticized by historians for inaccuracy and lack of specificity. Yet Foucault’s insights into the disciplining nature of the Enlightenment, and of modernity more generally, stand up to scrutiny. His discussions of the medical profession’s role in the inculcation of self-discipline as a cultural ideal and a bodily habit constitute an essential starting point for my own interpretation of nineteenth-century psychiatry. That said, the Foucauldian vision of psychiatric power is oddly depersonalized, with individual doctors acting as stand-ins for the dispersed yet ever-present nature of modern “authority” rather than as historical agents in their own right. This tends to shield them from responsibility despite Foucault’s critical stance toward the psychiatric profession and, perhaps more important, obscure doctors’ own submission to the disciplining forces of which they were a part. Imagining alienists as classed and gendered subjects therefore reorients our understanding of medical power writ large.

So too does approaching the history of psychiatry in a fashion that consistently seeks to give voice to those labeled insane. This is a notoriously difficult task. Roy Porter called on historians of psychiatry to write histories from “the patient’s view” over thirty years ago, yet, as a recent assessment of the field notes, “Porter’s exhortation, for the most cynical, has acted as little more than a seductive proposal to lure audiences without bringing anything new to the understanding of medical practices or the patient experience.”'® The discovery of patient writings from the nineteenth century makes constructing a “bottom up” psychiatric history of this era possible. As Alexandra Bacopoulos-Viau and Aude Fauvel point out, however, Porter himself failed to address precisely how historians of mental medicine might move beyond histories that consider patient writers as exceptions to the rule, “giving no real clue as to how one could go about studying more ‘ordinary’ patients.” Y

This book represents an attempt to allow mental patients to speak—not from the “bottom up,” or from the “patient’s perspective,” but as active and necessary participants in an ongoing cultural conversation. This conversation took place in vast public asylums and more intimate maisons de santé, in the halls of the National Assembly and the meeting rooms of the Societé Médico-Psychologiques, in family homes and on public streets. The meanings of masculinity, femininity, rationality, and madness were produced and reproduced through the course of innumerable personal interactions in a multitude of settings. Using patients’ own words whenever possible highlights their engagement in this process. So too does using alienists’ writings (which are far more plentiful) with an eye toward the limits of medical power, showing how doctors and patients were all beholden to cultural expectations outside the control of any one individual. Thus, in reimagining Leuret as a man rather than simply a doctor, we likewise reposition Dupré: he too now enters the conversation as a man, not only a patient."

Teasing out the relationship between masculinity, femininity, and madness during the nineteenth century requires us to step back and consider the French

Revolution, which set the stage for both the rise of the psychiatric profession and the spread of new class and gender expectations. The birth of psychiatry in France was intimately tied to the death of absolutism. Although those considered insane were confined in general hospitals and private maisons de santé throughout the eighteenth century, these institutions rarely specialized in the treatment of insanity and instead housed mad people alongside the indigent, the sick, and the physically disabled. More significantly, those who ran such institutions in the early modern period did not view institutional spaces as vectors of cure (although they did believe physical treatments such as bloodletting, baths, and purgatives could soothe troubled minds). This began to change in the mid-to-late-1700s as Enlightened optimism concerning innate human potential contributed to a growing faith in the curability of insanity.

France was hardly alone in its embrace of this idea—those who would come to be recognized as the forerunners of the psychiatric profession emerged nearly simultaneously in France, England, Scotland, Italy, and Central Europe—but the Revolution of 1789 provided unique opportunities to put previously haphazard medical innovations into practice on a wider scale. The young doctor Philippe Pinel became director of the Parisian asylum Bicétre in 1793 in recognition of his medical skill and his political commitment to republicanism, inaugurating an era noteworthy for the medicalization of mental illness and the state’s involvement in psychiatric treatment. Pinel supposedly released the mad from their shackles shortly after his appointment, identifying them as patients rather than prisoners for the first time.” This foundational moment of French psychiatry would be immortalized in art and through the testimonies of Pinel’s followers in the century that followed. It hardly mattered that the event never occurred in the precise form recalled by posterity. The selftaught guardian and former inmate of Bicétre, Pussin, unshackled the patients in 1797, two years after Pinel had moved to another post.”

The myth, however, was exceedingly useful, for it promoted an image of the profession that connected Pinel’s treatment methods to the ideals of revolutionary France. In suggesting people perceived as mad deserved treatment rather than punishment, the story of the chains of Bicétre situated the alienist as a liberator, a healer, and as someone capable of transforming the insane into citizens. Pinel did in fact free the patients of the women’s hospital the Salpêtrière in 1800, acknowledging their humanity and their ability to eventually rejoin French society in the process. Furthermore, doctors inspired by the real and imagined Pinel emphasized their commitment to the humane treatment of mad people throughout the nineteenth century, even when the actual conditions that reigned in psychiatric institutions firmly contradicted the liberationist ideal. From the start, the asylum symbolized the possibilities and the limitations of political liberalism, as doctors envisioned a more inclusive society while recreating old hierarchies on new foundations, particularly with respect to gender, disability, and class.

Psychiatric pronouncements mattered during and after the Revolution because an individual’s perceived rational capacity determined the allotment of political and social prerogatives. Mental patients effectively lost both the rights of citizenship and control over their finances for the duration of their asylum stays.”! In this sense, male patients were legally feminized. Revolutionary and Napoleonic-era lawmakers insisted that women, as the less rational sex, were best suited for domestic roles, whereas men were natural breadwinners and active citizens because they could more effectively control their emotions.” This gender construct had deep roots. As Christopher Forth explains, a man’s ability to master both his body and his feelings has represented a central element of ideal masculinity since the early modern period, when monarchs consolidated their authority and curbed the violent tendencies of the nobility. Selfrestraint constituted an important social lubricant in developing court societies and a form of distinction among aristocratic men (despite their nostalgia for an imagined past free of such constraints). The expectation of masculine self-control spread to the non-noble elite by at least the eighteenth century, when Enlightenment-era thinkers argued that differences between men and women determined their suitability for public life on this very basis. The replacement of absolutism with a government based on the social contract served to amplify the gendering of reason by tying it to the practice of citizenship.”

Moreover, although France was somewhat slow to industrialize compared with other Western European societies, opportunities to succeed in business and the liberal professions nonetheless increased in the opening decades of the nineteenth century. This economic context further bolstered ideals of feminine domesticity and masculine self-control, as diverse segments of the middle classes readily subscribed to these gender expectations as a means of distinction. Unlike self-indulgent aristocrats or disorderly workers, bourgeois men supposedly exhibited the self-mastery required to lead in the realms of business, politics, and the family. Bourgeois wives, for their part, exemplified feminine virtue by behaving in a fashion untenable for lower-class women, who could not afford to spend their time or their family’s money on purely domestic pursuits.” Although the term “bourgeois” generally connoted upper-class non-noble status in nineteenth-century France, members of the middle strata of French society likewise subscribed to such norms when possible as a way to signal their differentiation from the popular classes.

The gendering of reason therefore accomplished a great deal of cultural work, simultaneously legitimating the authority of the bourgeoisie and excluding women from the political sphere. Yet despite its apparent taken-for-grantedness, separate spheres ideology was marked by internal contradictions, as well as persistent attempts to gloss over them by making gender differences appear natural. Explanations for mental illness in women often reflected this duality. The doctor Legrand du Saulle, for example, claimed women were biologically predisposed to hysteria and that particular moments in a woman's life cycle, including pregnancy, could aggravate her mental state. Such beliefs served to reinforce associations between womanliness and mental instability, but they also implied that a woman’s “natural” role as wife and mother was perhaps not so natural after all. Medical men themselves rarely acknowledged the relevance—or even the existence—of ideological contradictions, but those interned in asylums against their will often exploited such inconsistencies, both in day-to-day interactions with their doctors and when publicly defending themselves.

The institutionalization of middle-class and bourgeois men likewise undermined the profession’s articulation of gender difference. New cultural understandings of meritocracy, in particular, strengthened associations between manliness and self-control that alienists would help sustain, while also creating expectations that not all men could meet. The elimination of noble privilege by the National Assembly in 1789 and the Chapelier Law’s ban on guilds two years later were both intended to eradicate corporate prerogatives and create conditions more favorable to individual initiative. The /ycée system and the grandes écoles similarly helped open bureaucratic careers to talent. Underlying each of these shifts was the belief that citizens should be free to apply their natural abilities without arbitrary limitations.” Ironically, the chance for men to freely make use of their reason multiplied potential sources of psychological distress, and postrevolutionary asylums housed many men whose failure to succeed professionally inspired or aggravated their conditions. Merit functioned not only as a potentially equalizing force but also as a new criterion for the allotment of privileges based on the possession of vaguely defined talent rather than noble birth or corporate membership.” This fact profoundly shaped the behaviors of men, as they sought to prove their worth in a society stripped of traditional markers of status by comporting themselves in a “reasonable” (i.e., self possessed) manner. Consider Balzac’s Rastignac, whose efforts to climb the social ladder in Pére Goriot succeed in large part because he learns how to hide and control