Calvin the mimic: Contre la secte phantastique et furieuse des libertins, qui se nomment spirituelz (1545)

Abstract

This essay examines some instances of mimicry in Jean Calvin’s Contre la secte phantastique et furieuse des libertins, qui se nomment spirituelz (1545). Calvin’s denunciation of the spiritual libertines, an obscure antinomian sect which had recently spread from the Low Countries to northern France, is made all the more vehement by a fear that others might confuse some aspects of their theology with his. Mimicry of his opponents’ Picard dialect is one way among several of marking off their voices from his own. Although Calvin shows himself elsewhere capable of trenchant humour (for example, in the Traité des reliques) examples of speech-parody are rare in his work, possessing a farcical quality more readily associated with Rabelais (the episode of the ‘écolier Limousin’) or Molière (Nérine in Monsieur de Pourceaugnac). The blending of heretical voices with regional ones raises broader questions of language and nation, just four years before the publication of Joachim Du Bellay’s Deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse (1549).

KEYWORDS:

• Jean Calvin
• spiritual libertines
• voice
• mimesis
• comedy; Picard dialect

Introduction: parasitic error

Certain propositions in the history of ideas owe nearly the whole of their posterity to those who set out to refute them. Celsus’s True Doctrine (c. 178 CE) contains some of the most powerful objections to early Christianity ever assembled … or so it is supposed, since these survive only as excerpts in Contra Celsum (248 CE), Origen’s point-by-point rebuttal.¹ The second-century heretic Marcion of Sinope taught that the Christian Gospel was entirely a Gospel of Love, to the absolute exclusion of the Law – a position that led him to reject the whole of the Old Testament, and retain from the New only an amputated Luke. Our chief source for this heresy? Not Marcion himself, whose writings have been lost, but Tertullian’s summary and refutation, Adversus Marcionem.² The voices of Celsus and Marcion survive more or less unchanged, we assume, in their opponents’ transcriptions or paraphrases; others linger more uncertainly in episodes of ventriloquy. A later counterblast to Marcion, Epiphanius’s Panarion, engages the heretic in a kind of sarcastic dialogue.³ Hardly anyone in seventeenth-century France dared express a formal case for atheism … except the defeated interlocutor of Pascal’s Pensées.⁴ Doubtless other examples could be added to the list.⁵

Parasitic heresies of this kind – that is, errors that have subsisted only or mainly inside their own refutations – present an obvious challenge to historians of ideas, who must reckon with problems of omission or distortion. Can Origen be trusted to report the best of Celsus? A related dilemma may have faced the original refuter. If I expound these falsehoods in written form, even as I denounce them, do I not promote their further spread? The risks of a published rebuttal seem clear, even in the context of early heresies more likely to circulate through illiterate populations by word-of-mouth than via a written text. (According to the fifth-century historian Philostorgius, Arius floated his heresy down the Mediterranean by standing on the docks at Alexandria and teaching its tenets to sailors in the form of sea-shanties.)⁶ Then comes an exacerbating difficulty. When my refutation quotes, summarises or otherwise ‘hosts’ the arguments of my heretical opponent, how can I be certain that his words won’t be taken for my own? How to demarcate, clearly and unambiguously, Satan’s lies from my truths? Here the task of defending orthodoxy takes on a literary, even narratological dimension – that of separating, or discerning, mimesis from diegesis.⁷ ‘Try the spirits whether they are of God’, commands John (I John 4:1); ‘qui parle?’, asks Roland Barthes.⁸ Sometimes spiritual discernment requires the telling of one voice from another.⁹

Jean Calvin’s Contre la secte phantastique et furieuse des libertins, qui se nomment spirituelz (1545) offers a lively variation on the theme of parasitic error.¹⁰ By the same quirk of historical irony alluded to above, its longest chapter has come down to us as the only reliable textual source – by an obscure libertine agitator, Antoine Pocque – for the very ideas Calvin was trying to suppress.¹¹ But this essay will make another libertine voice – earthier, more sporadic – its principal focus. Libertines speak Picard in Contre les libertins, a language that Calvin (himself a native of Picardy) mimics on four different occasions to curious effect. Although Calvin shows himself elsewhere capable of trenchant humour (one thinks especially of his Traité des reliques), examples of speech-parody are rare in his work, possessing a farcical quality we might more readily associate with Rabelais (the episode of the ‘écolier Limousin’) or Molière (Nérine in Monsieur de Pourceaugnac). The blending of heretical voices with regional ones raises broader questions of language and nation, just four years before the publication of Joachim Du Bellay’s Deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse (1549).

An embarrassing twin

Having set out his schismatic theology in the Institutes (Latin publication, 1536; French translation, 1541), Calvin’s writing took a polemical turn in the mid-1540s. From now on he would direct his rhetorical and exegetical energies less at Catholic enemies than at wayward Protestant friends. His longer French-language treatises of this phase target either those of his countrymen who take his radicalism too far (Contre les anabaptistes) or not far enough (the Excuse aux Nicodémites, aimed at those with Reformed sympathies living in Catholic territories who continued to conform outwardly to Popish ‘idolatry’). Contre les libertins was the last major instalment in this mini-series, printed in Geneva by Jean Girard in 1545. But by comparison the beliefs – even the membership – of the group under attack in that text remain both more shadowy and more sinister.

Situating the origins of the libertine sect in Holland and the Brabant, Calvin dates its spread into northern France to the early 1530s. Although he numbers its followers in the thousands, only five named individuals are identified: a mysterious ‘Coppin, Flameng, natif de l’Isle [i.e. Lille]’ (56), the founder of the movement; Quintin Thierry (1480–1546), originally a tailor from the Hainaut region whom Calvin had met in Geneva and later perished at the stake in Tournai; Bernard des Moulins, recently deceased; Claude Perceval, of whom nothing more is known; and finally ‘un petit prêtre nommé Antoine Pocque’ (57) who, having tried and failed to win favour with Calvin, took refuge first with Martin Bucer in Strasbourg and then at the court of Marguerite de Navarre in Nérac.¹² If libertine adepts are historically elusive, written traces are even more so. Calvin names two printed texts, a short Instruction et salutaire admonition pour parfaitement vivre en ce monde, et comment en toute notre adversité serons patients, and a more substantial Lunette des Chrestiens. Both are now lost. One of the few libertine works that has survived is the unnamed text by Pocque that Calvin – playing Origen to Pocque’s Celsus – quotes at length in chapter 23 of Contre les libertins.¹³

Calvin’s is among the first polemical uses of the French noun libertin, a term destined for a colourful future in the centuries that followed.¹⁴ But the so-called spiritual libertines of the 1530s and 40s should not be confused with the free-thinkers and atheists of later periods. Instead, those described by Calvin are best characterised as pantheistic antinomians. They can be called pantheistic because of their belief in a universal world-spirit of which individual human souls were merely local emanations and into which, they believed, each would be reabsorbed upon their death. As Calvin points out, this conviction – in the regeneration of the soul only – marks a radical departure from standard Christian beliefs in the Last Judgement and the resurrection of the flesh. Connected to it is the libertines’ docetic Christology, according to which Jesus himself was pure Spirit – ‘un phantosme’ (108), in Calvin’s derisive paraphrase – having no incarnate form. On this view the Passion and Resurrection amount to little more than a symbolic performance or, as Calvin puts it, ‘une farce ou une moralité jouée sur un échaffaut pour nous figurer le mystère de notre salut’ (108). For in actuality, argue the libertines, God had already consummated the defeat of the old Adam in Mankind through the operation of divine grace. From this position their antinomianism naturally follows. Because Man’s salvation has already been accomplished it makes little sense to speak of sin, judgement or the Law. Man cannot truly sin, since the libertines deny any meaningful distinction between his agency and the divine will. As Calvin explains:

En ce faisant ils n’attribuent à l’homme nulle volonté, non plus que s’il était une pierre, et ôtent toute discretion du bien et du mal, pour ce que rien ne peut être mal fait, à leur intention, en tant que Dieu en est auteur. (89)

Instead, sin, flesh, Satan, world: these are to be regarded as nothing more than vestiges of the old Adam, illusions of the uninitiated that the libertines, echoing a favourite term of their protector Marguerite de Navarre, call ‘le Cuider’ (86).

Where did spiritual libertinism come from? Contre les libertins begins with a list of ancient heretical antecedents in Marcionism, Gnosticism and Manicheism (51–55). Noting the wellspring of the movement in Germany and the Low Counties, Calvin might also have mentioned the late medieval Free Brethren tradition: antinomian tendencies can be detected in the Rhenish and Flemish mysticism of, notably, Meister Eckhart and Marguerite Porete. But he does not. Less surprisingly, he also passes over what to Catholic opponents must have looked like close affinities with elements of Protestant thought itself. Chief among these is the libertines’ attitude towards Free Will, which would have instantly recalled the disagreements between Luther and Erasmus. Squint at the libertines’ repeated insistence on Christ’s words on the Cross (‘tout est consommé’) and it is easy to mistake it for the same principle of sola gratia on which Calvin based his own doctrine of Predestination. Whereas Calvin roundly condemns the libertines’ ‘sleep of conscience’, Catholic polemicists may have seen in libertine antinomianism not a break from Protestant teaching but its logical conclusion, if indeed they noticed any difference at all. It is telling that no Catholic condemnation of the spiritual libertines seems ever to have been published. Why bother, if libertinism and Calvinism – along with anabaptism – were viewed as no more than variant outgrowths of one and the same error?¹⁵

This potential conflation of libertine with Reformed thought, with the first seeming to pose as the second’s embarrassing twin, elicits in Contre les libertins a series of denunciations more vehement than anything Calvin had directed against Rome. Even he could concede that ‘encore le Pape laisse-il quelque forme de religion’ (58); by contrast a letter to Marguerite de Navarre, dated 13 May 1545, decries ‘une secte la plus pernicieuse et execrable qui fût oncques au monde’.¹⁶ This was not mere hyperbole. That Calvin was willing to jeopardise the goodwill of the king’s sister, his own one-time protector and now Quintin’s and Pocque’s – is a sign of just how dangerous he thought their creeping influence. It was time to expel this new cuckoo-in-the-nest.

Great swelling words

Unlike the anabaptist or Nicodemite threat, that posed by the libertines is framed as primarily linguistic. Their perversion of religion is also one of the French language. Concerned to protect the francophone Protestantism of which he had become the living embodiment, Calvin is especially clear on this point. He promises to reveal ‘par quel moyen est parvenue cette poison jusque à nostre langue’ (56); shortly afterwards he speculates that ‘en la langue Française seulement il se trouvera déjà une garenne de docteurs de cette secte’ (57). He devotes an entire chapter to ‘[le] langage et style de parler qu’ont les Quintinistes’.¹⁷ Published only shortly before Du Bellay’s Deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse, Contre les libertins mounts its own defence of sorts.

For all is not lost. The new libertines may speak French like us, Calvin explains, but they do so in a special way easily recognised by vigilant listeners. Among the most regularly occurring scriptural loci in Contre les libertins are the General Epistles of 2 Peter and Jude. Jude denounces the false teachers of his own time, calling them ‘certain men crept in unawares’ (Jude 1:4), ‘murmurers […] walking after their own lusts’ whose mouths speak ‘great swelling words’ (Jude 1:16). Like Jude’s ‘ungodly men’, the ‘Quintinistes’ adopt according to Calvin ‘[un] caquet’ (69), ‘[un] gergon obscur’ (65), ‘une langue sauvage en laquelle ils gasouillent tellement qu’on n’y entend quasi non plus qu’un chant des oiseaux’ (69). Although they may use the same words as the rest of us (for example ‘esprit’, ‘régénération’, ‘cuider’, ‘monde’), they mask their true significance, aiming to befuddle those not of their own kind. And yet this obscurity may come to be the very sign (or ‘marque’) that gives the libertines away, since attentive French speakers can see through the charade:

Que ce soit donc une marque pour les discerner, quand on les orra ainsi parler, ou plutôt gasouiller, que on n’y entendra que le haut Allemand. (70)

Calvin’s closing reference to high German, though a stock phrase at this time for unintelligible speech, is especially apposite here: libertine French, with its uncertain origins on the Franco-Flemish border, is finally revealed to be hardly French at all, and duly expelled North.¹⁸

It is hard to imagine anything more antithetical than libertine ‘caquet’ to Calvin’s now celebrated attachment to clarity and distinctness in French.¹⁹ Calvin himself underlines the contrast: ‘la langue a été créée de Dieu pour exprimer la cogitation,’ he writes, ‘à ce que nous puissions communiquer ensemble’ (70). Christ himself undertook to accommodate God’s Word to human understanding, ‘comme une nourrice bégaye avec son enfant’ (70). So too Reformed ministers who adopt the simple language of their flock. Here again, however, surface resemblances may threaten to overshadow fundamental difference. How are readers – especially inattentive ones – supposed to distinguish between divine bégayement, which soothes and instructs, and libertine gasouillement that bedazzles and beguiles? The problem of spiritual discretion is recast as one of voice, and Calvin’s text a manual, among other things, for discerning between orthodox French and heretical idiolect.

The marking off or ‘tagging’ of libertine speech takes a very particular form in Contre les libertins. On four separate occasions Calvin mimics Quintin Thierry’s Picard dialect. While the rhetorical trick of speaking in another’s voice is commonplace – Calvin, following Erasmus and Susenbrotus, would have termed it sermocinatio – the dialectological inflection is not.²⁰ The first instance is so discreet as to pass almost unnoticed. Exemplifying the libertines’ contemptuous attitude to Scripture, Calvin cites Quintin’s nicknames for the apostles (75): ‘pot cassé’ (Paul), ‘renieur de Dieu’ (Peter), ‘usurier’ (Matthew) and ‘jeusne sottelet, en son picard’ (John; my emphasis).²¹ However brief, this aside prepares the stage for longer set-piece impersonations. The second instance appears in Chapter 13. Introducing a clear setting (‘Une rue’) and dramatis personae (QUINTIN, LE FIDÈLE), Calvin stages a little theatrical interlude in which Quintin’s voice is now ventriloquised directly:

Cette grosse touasse de Quintin se trouva une fois en une rue où on avait tué un homme; il y avait là d’aventure quelque fidèle qui dit: Hélas! qui a fait ce méchant acte? Incontinent il répondit en son picard: Puy que tu le veu sçavoir, cha esté my. L’autre comme tout étonné, lui dit: Comment series-vous bien si lâche? A quoi il réplique: Che ne suis-je mye, chet Dieu. – Comment? dit l’autre, faut-il imputer à Dieu les crimes qu’il commande être punis? Adonc ce pouacre dégorge plus fort son venin, disant: Ouy, chet ty, chet my, chet Dieu. Car che que ty ou my foisons, chet Dieu qui le foit; et che que Dieu foit, nous le foisons, pourche qu’il est en nous. (89)

This episode is meant to illustrate Quintin’s pantheism, and the collapse of the distinction between creature and creator. But its gleeful repetitions (‘chet ty, chet my, chet Dieu’), and glib chiasmus (‘che que tu ou my foisons, chet Dieu qui le foit etc.), draw equal attention to his opponent’s picardismes.²² Their unexpected combination make both a source of comedy.

The third instance occurs in Chapter 17 (‘Quel est le Christ des libertins’):

J’étais present quand Quintin dit à un homme fort malade, qui avait seulement dit: Hélas! mon Dieu, que je sens de mal, aide-moi. – Vore dia? est che bien parlé chela? De dire que Christ se porte ma? Tout le ma n’est y mye passé en ly? N’est y mye en la gloire de son pere? Est che la tou che que vous avez aprin? (109)

Theologically speaking, this episode illustrates a similar error to the previous one. Only this time, now that the reader has been suitably prepared, Calvin intensifies the picard flavour: ma (for ‘mal’), aprin (a nasalised ‘appris’).²³ This intensification continues in the fourth and final example, found in Chapter 18. By this point Calvin is no longer referring to Quintin specifically, but libertines in general (and in the plural). And yet:

Revenons donc à leur principal propos. S’ils voient un homme qui fasse difficulté de malfaire: Ô Adam, disent-ils, ty y voy encore. L’anchien homme n’est nyen encore cruchifié en ty. S’ils voient un homme craindre le jugement de Dieu: Tu sens, disent-ils, encoire le gou de la pumme. Vuarde bien que che morcheau ne t’estranle le gosié. (112)

Notice, alongside the picardismes already encountered, the addition of ‘voy’, ‘pumme’, and especially the so-called ‘w [or v] germanique’ (‘vuarde’).²⁴ Here the lack of direct speech attribution (compare the previous ‘il répondit en son picard’, ‘Quintin dit’) only adds to the comedy of recognition. So firmly has Calvin established Picard as the libertines’ idiolectal signature that any further tagging is now surplus to requirements. Libertin speech just is Picard speech, Calvin seems to say, with all the ideological implications that that surely carries with it … .

… But just what are those implications? Perhaps not as straightforward as they may seem. It is tempting to conclude that beneath Calvin’s mimicry lies a form of class snobbery, and an attempt to associate libertine speech with the world of low farce. Such associations are especially difficult to resist for anyone familiar with Molière’s Monsieur de Pourceaugnac, and its fausse Picarde servant Nérine.²⁵ But this may be to project a centralising, post-seventeenth-century view of language and nation back onto a sixteenth-century one. While evidence exists of failing prestige in this period, Picardy still took pride in its long-standing position as one of the four great ‘nations’ of the University of Paris (the others being Île de France, Normandy and England).²⁶ Nor does there exist a self-evident connection between Picard and linguistic impropriety: for example, of the relatively few sixteenth-century treatises dealing with French grammar, almost all were provincial, and several written by Picards.²⁷ Finally, Calvin had another reason to be lenient. In a further instance of embarrassing resemblance, a number of prominent Reformers themselves had Picard origins: Jacques Lefèvre d’Étaples, Gérard Roussel, Olivétan … and indeed Calvin himself, a native of Noyon.²⁸

In the end, the secret of Calvin’s mimicry may be found not in anything intrinsic to Picard but in another polemical treatise of the 40s, the Traité des reliques (1543): that is to say, in a more general Reformist antipathy to anything smacking of the local. Like a venerated relic in the local parish church, the dialect shared by Coppin, Quintin and Pocque plants them unmistakeably in a place and, by the same token, in all the superstitions and idolatry associated with it.²⁹ Still a recent exile, perhaps Calvin discerns the true mark of error less in voice than where one chooses to call home – a corner of God’s earth or the Republic of his Word.

Additional information

Notes on contributors

Timothy Chesters

Timothy Chesters is a specialist in sixteenth-century French literature and thought at Clare College, University of Cambridge. He is the author of Ghost Stories in Late Renaissance France: Walking by Night (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), as well as of a number of articles on early modern French demonology, Ronsard, and Montaigne.

Notes

1 Origen, Contra Celsum, ed. and trans. by Henry Chadwick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980).

2 Tertullian, Contra Marcionem, ed. and trans. by Ernest Evans (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972).

3 Epiphanius, The Panarion of Epiphanius of Salamis Book I (Sects 1–46), trans. by Frank Williams (Leiden: Brill, 2009), III.42, pp. 294–363.

4 Michael Moriarty, Pascal: Reasoning and Belief (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), pp. 267–70.

5 An adjacent case might be that of Remy de Gourmont, who claims to have been baffled by Bacon’s Novum Organum until he read its hostile distillation in Joseph de Maistre. See Remy de Gourmont, Promenades philosophiques (Paris: Mercure de France, 1905), p. 23.

6 Photius, Epitome of the Ecclesiastical History of Philostorgius, trans. by Edward Walford (London: Henry G Bohn, 1855), Book II, ch. 2. My thanks to Mark Smith for this reference.

7 The theoretical origin of this distinction is Plato, Republic 3.392c–395b; for a recent discussion, see Colin Burrow, Imitating Authors: Plato to Futurity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), pp. 51–54.

8 Michael Moriarty, Roland Barthes (Cambridge: Polity, 1991), p. 101.

9 On the later importation of discernement into seventeenth-century discussions of (literary and other) taste, see Michael Moriarty, Taste and Ideology in Seventeenth-Century France (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 57–58, 60–61.

10 Henceforth Contre les libertins. Unless otherwise stated, all references are to the edition by Mirjam Van Veen (Geneva: Droz, 2005). Page numbers are included in brackets in the main text.

11 For a recent ‘reconstitution’ and study of Poque’s treatise, see Luce Albert, ‘ «J’appelle ce brouillon un cocq à l’asne»: reconstitution d’un texte libertin transmis par Calvin’, Bulletin de La Société de l’Histoire Du Protestantisme Français 155 (2009), 55–76.

12 Aside from Pocque (sometimes called Pocquet), Marguerite de Navarre also took in Perceval and Quintin. On Marguerite’s association with spiritual libertinism, and its possible influence on her theatre, see the introduction to her Comédie de Mont de Marsan in Marguerite de Navarre, Théâtre profane, ed. by Verdun L. Saulnier (Geneva: Droz, 1946), pp. 242–52. On tensions between Calvin and Marguerite during the 1540s, see Jonathan A. Reid, King’s Sister – Queen of Dissent: Marguerite de Navarre (1492-1549) and her evangelical network, 2 vols (Leiden: Brill, 2009), II, 553–63.

13 Guillaume Farel takes aim at another lost libertine text, entitled Le Bouclier de la defense, in La Glaive de la parolle veritable (Geneva: Jean Girard, 1550). Farel’s counterattack is largely a repeat of Calvin’s, minus the brevity and verve.

14 J.-C. Margolin, ‘Réflexions sur l’emploi du terme libertin au XVI^e siècle’ in Aspects du Libertinisme au XVI^e siècle, ed. by M. Bataillon (Paris: Vrin, 1974), pp. 1–33.

15 On this question, see Louise Daubigny, ‘Calvin et les libertins spirituels’ in Calvin: Naissance d’une pensée, ed. by Jacques Varet (Tours: Presses Universitaires François-Rabelais, 2012), pp. 59–66.

16 Ioannis Calvini Opera quae supersunt omnia, ed. by G. Baum et al., 59 vols (Brunswick and Berlin: Schwetschke, 1863–1900), XII, c. 64–68.

17 Chapter 7.

18 See art. ‘Aleman’ in Randle Cotgrave, The Dictionarie of French and English Tongues (London: Adam Islip, 1611): ‘Il n’en entend que le haut Aleman, ’Tis as Greek unto him, he understands no part of it; he is never a whit the wiser by it.’

19 On Calvin as a precursor of French classicism, see especially Francis M. Higman, The Style of John Calvin in his French Polemical Treatises (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967).

20 On Calvin and sermocinatio, see Olivier Millet, Calvin et la dynamique de la parole: étude de rhétorique réformée (Geneva: Slatkine, 1992), 361–66.

21 ‘Pot cassé’ is an allusion to 2 Cor 4:7 (‘We hold these treasures in earthen vessels)’; ‘usurier’ refers to Matthew’s previous career as a moneylender. On sixteenth-century Picard, see especially Louis-Fernand Flutre, Le Moyen picard d’après les textes littéraires du temps (1560-1660) (Amiens: Musée de Picardie, 1970). For ‘sottelet’, see p. 345.

22 Moi > my (see Flutre, 505); ça a été > cha esté (Flutre, 503–505); ce n’est pas moi > che ne suis-je mye (Flutre, 410); fait > foit (Flutre, 263)

23 Flutre, 486 (ma); 514–15 (appris > aprins).

24 Flutre, 510 (vais > voy); 427 (pomme > pumme); 482 (garde > vuarde or warde).

25 For a recent study, see Anne Dagnac, ‘Le picard de Nérine: moyen picard, ou picard moyen?’, Littératures classiques 87.2 (2015), 135–47.

26 David Hornsby, ‘Picard: a mal aimé among regional languages?’, Journal of French Language Studies 29 (2019), 169–88.

27 Colette Demaizière, La Grammaire française au XVIème siècle: les grammairiens picards, 2 vols (Paris: Didier, 1983). Note, however, the Parisian and Calvinist Henri Estienne’s criticisms of the picardismes in Antoine Cauchie’s Hypomneses (Demaizière, I. 369–406).

28 Unconvincing attempts have even been made to draw out textual picardismes of Calvin’s own. See Charles Guerlin de Guer, ‘Sur la langue du picard Jean Calvin’, Français moderne 5.4 (1937), 303–16; Higman rejects these findings (Higman, 57–58).

29 For a recent study of Calvinist hostility to the local, see Spencer J. Weinreich, ‘An Infinity of Relics: Erasmus and the Copious Rhetoric of John Calvin’s Traité des reliques’, Renaissance Quarterly 74.1 (2021), 137–80 (166).