No More Learning

CHORUS: But who is this? what thing of sea or land--
Female of sex it seems--
That, so bedecked, ornate, and gay,
Comes this way sailing?
Some rich Philistian matron she may seem;
And now at nearer view no other certain
Than Dalila, thy wife.

SAMSON: My wife! My traitress! Let her not come near me.

DALILA: With doubtful feet and wavering resolution
I came, still dreading thy displeasure, Samson.

SAMSON: Out, out, hyena! These are thy wonted arts,
And arts of every woman false like thee--
To break all faith, all vows, deceive, betray;
Then, as repentant, to submit, beseech
A reconcilement, move with feigned remorse.

DALILA: Let me obtain forgiveness of thee, Samson,
I to the lords will intercede, not doubting
Their favourable ear, that I may fetch thee
From forth this loathsome prison-house, to abide
With me, where my redoubled love and care,
With nursing diligence, to me glad office,
May ever tend about thee to old age.

SAMSON: No, no; of my condition take no care;
It fits not; thou and I long since are twain;
Nor think me so unwary or accursed
To bring my feet again into the snare
Where once I have been caught.

DALILA: Let me approach at least, and touch thy hand.

SAMSON: Not for thy life, lest fierce remembrance wake
My sudden rage to tear thee joint by joint.
At distance I forgive thee; go with that;
Bewail thy falsehood, and the pious works
It hath brought forth to make thee memorable
Among illustrious women, faithful wives.

DALILA: I see thou art implacable, more deaf
To prayers than winds and seas. Yet winds to seas
Are reconciled at length, and sea to shore.
My name, perhaps, among the circumcised
In Dan, in Judah, and the bordering tribes
To all posterity may stand defamed.
But in my country, where I most desire,
I shall be named among the famousest
Of women, sung at solemn festivals,
Living and dead recorded, who to save
Her country from a fierce destroyer, chose
Above the faith of wedlock bands; my tomb
With odours visited and annual flowers.

CHORUS: She's gone--a manifest serpent by her sting--
Discovered in the end, till now concealed.
This idol's day hath been to thee no day of rest,
Labouring thy mind
More than the working day thy hands.
And yet, perhaps, more trouble is behind;
For I descry this way
Some other tending; in his hand
A sceptre or quaint staff he bears,
A public officer, and now at hand.
His message will be short and voluble.

OFFICER: Hebrews, the prisoner Samson here I seek.

CHORUS: His manacles remark him; there he sits.

OFFICER: Samson, to thee our lords thus bid me say.
This day to Dagon is a solemn feast,
With sacrifices, triumph, pomp, and games;
Thy strength they know surpassing human rate,
And now some public proof thereof require
To honour this great feast and great assembly.
Rise, therefore, with all speed, and come along,
Where I will see thee heartened and fresh clad,
To appear as fit before the illustrious lords.

SAMSON: Thou know'st I am an Hebrew; therefore tell them
Our law forbids at their religious rites
My presence; for that cause I cannot come.

OFFICER: This answer, be assured will not content them.

SAMSON: Return the way thou camest;
I will not come.

OFFICER: Regard thyself; this will offend them highly.

SAMSON: Can they think me so broken, so debased
With corporal servitude, that my mind ever
Will condescend to such absurd commands?
Joined with extreme contempt! I will not come.

OFFICER: I am sorry what this stoutness will produce.

CHORUS: He's gone, and who knows how he may report
Thy words by adding fuel to the flames.
Expect another message more imperious.

SAMSON: Shall I abuse this consecrated gift
Of strength, again returning with my hair,
After my great transgression! --so requite
Favour renewed, and add a greater sin
By prostituting holy things to idols.

CHORUS: Where the heart joins not, outward acts defile not.

SAMSON: Be of good courage; I begin to feel
Some rousing motions in me, which dispose
To something extraordinary my thoughts.
I with this messenger will go along--
If there be aught of presage in the mind,
This day will be remarkable in my life
By some great act, or of my days the last.

CHORUS: In time thou hast resolved: the man returns.

OFFICER: Samson, this second message from our lords
To thee I am bid say: Art thou our slave,
And dar'st thou, at our sending and command,
Dispute thy coming? Come without delay;
Or we shall find such engines to assail
And hamper thee, as thou shalt come of force,
Though thou wert firmlier fastened than a rock.

SAMSON: Because they shall not trail me through their streets
Like a wild beast, I am content to go.

OFFICER: I praise thy resolution. Doff these links:
By this compliance thou wilt win the lords
To favour, and perhaps to set thee free.

SAMSON: Brethren, farewell. Your company along
I will not wish, lest it perhaps offend them
To see me girt with friends.
Happen what may, of me expect to hear
Nothing dishonourable, impure, unworthy
Our God, our Law, my nation, or myself.

CHORUS: Go, and the Holy One
Of Israel be thy guide.

MANOA: Peace with you, brethren! My inducement hither
Was not at present here to find my son.
By order of the lords new parted hence
To come and play before them at their feast.
I heard all as I came; I had no will,
Lest I should see him forced to things unseemly.
But that which moved my coming now was chiefly
To give ye part with me what hope I have
With good success to work his liberty.

CHORUS: That hope would much rejoice us to partake
With thee.

MANOA: What noise or shout was that? It tore the sky.

CHORUS: Doubtless the people shouting to behold
Their once great dread, captive and blind before them,
Or at some proof of strength, before them shown.

MANOA: His ransom, if my whole inheritance
May compass it, shall willingly be paid
And numbered down. Much rather I shall choose
To live the poorest in my tribe, than richest,
And he in that calamitous prison left.
No, I am fixed not to part hence without him.
For his redemption all my patrimony,
If need be, I am ready to forego
And quit. Not wanting him, I shall want nothing.
It shall be my delight to tend his eyes,
And view him sitting in his house, ennobled
With all those high exploits by him achieved.

CHORUS: Thy hopes are not ill founded, nor seem vain,
Of his delivery.

MANOA: I know your friendly minds, and--O what noise!
Mercy of Heaven! What hideous noise was that
Horribly loud, unlike the former shout.

CHORUS: Noise call you it, or universal groan,
As if the whole inhabitation perished?
Blood, death, and deathful deeds, are in that noise,
Ruin, destruction at the utmost point.

MANOA: Of ruin indeed methought I heard the noise.
Oh! it continues; the have slain my son.
CHORUS: Thy son is rather slaying them; that outcry
From slaughter of one foe could not ascend.

MANOA: Some dismal accident it needs must be.
What shall we do--stay here, or run and see?

CHORUS: Best keep together here, lest, running thither,
We unawares run into danger's mouth.
This evil on the Philistines is fallen:
From whom could else a general cry be heard?

MANOA: A little stay will bring some notice hither.

CHORUS: I see one hither speeding--
An Hebrew, as I guess, and of our tribe.

MESSENGER: O, whither shall I run, or which way fly?
The sight of this so horrid spectacle,
Which erst my eyes beheld, and yet behold?

MANOA: The accident was loud, and here before thee
With rueful cry; yet what it was we know not.
Tell us the sum, the circumstance defer.

MESSENGER: Gaza yet stands; but all her sons are fallen,
All in a moment overwhelmed and fallen.

MANOA: Sad! but thou know'st to Israelites not saddest
The desolation of a hostile city.

MESSENGER: Feed on that first; there may in grief be surfeit.

MANOA: Relate by whom.

MESSENGER: By Samson.

MANOA: That still lessens
The sorrow and converts it nigh to joy.

MESSENGER: Ah! Manoa, I refrain too suddenly
To utter what will come at last too soon,
Lest evil tidings, with too rude eruption
Hitting thy aged ear, should pierce too deep.

MANOA: Suspense in news is torture; speak them out.

MESSENGER: Then take the worst in brief--Samson is dead.

MANOA: The worst indeed! O, all my hope's defeated
To free him hence! but Death, who sets all free,
Hath paid his ransom now and full discharge.
How died he? --death to life is crown or shame.
All by him fell, thou say'st; by whom fell he?
What glorious hand gave Samson his death's wound?

MESSENGER: Unwounded of his enemies he fell.

MANOA: Wearied with slaughter, then, or how? Explain.

MESSENGER: By his own hands.

MANOA: Self-violence! What cause
Brought him so soon at variance with himself
Among his foes?

MESSENGER: Inevitable cause--
At once both to destroy and be destroyed.
The edifice, where all were met to see him,
Upon their heads and on his own he pulled.
The building was a spacious theatre,
Half round on two main pillars vaulted high,
With seats where all the lords, and each degree
Of sort, might sit in order to behold.
Immediately
Was Samson as a public servant brought,
In their state livery clad.
At sight of him the people with a shout
Rifted the air, clamoring their god with praise,
Who had made their dreadful enemy their thrall.
He patient, but undaunted, where they led him,
Came to the place; and what was set before him,
Which without help of eye might be assayed,
To heave, pull, draw, or break, he still performed
All with incredible, stupendous force,
None daring to appear antagonist
At length, for intermission sake, they led him
Between the pillars; he his guide requested,
As over-tired, to let him lean awhile
With both his arms on those two massy pillars,
That to the arched roof gave main support.
He unsuspicious led him; which when Samson
Felt in his arms, with head awhile inclined,
And eyes fast fixed, he stood, as one who prayed,
Or some great matter in his mind revolved.
At last, with head erect, thus cried aloud,
"Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed
I have performed, as reason was, obeying,
Not without wonder or delight beheld;
Now, of my own accord, such other trial
I mean to show you of my strength yet greater
As with amaze shall strike all who behold. "
This uttered, straightening all his nerves, he bowed.
As with the force of winds and waters pent
When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars
With horrible convulsions to and fro
He tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew
The whole roof after them with burst of thunder
Upon the heads of all who sat beneath,
Lords, ladies, captains, counsellors, or priests,
Their choice nobility and flower, not only
Of this, but each Philistian city round,
Met from all parts to solemnise this feast.
Samson, with these immixed, inevitably
Pulled down the same destruction on himself;
The vulgar only scaped, who stood without.

MANOA: Samson hath quit himself
Like Samson, and heroically hath finished
A life heroic.
Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast; no weakness, no contempt,
Dispraise or blame; nothing but well and fair,
And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
Let us go find the body where it lies.

I, with what speed the while
Will send for all my kindred, all my friends,
To fetch him hence, and solemnly attend,
With silent obsequy and funeral train,
Home to his father's house. There will I build him
A monument, and plant it round with shade
Of laurel evergreen and branching palm,
With all his trophies hung, and acts enrolled
In copious legend, or sweet lyric song.
Thither shall all the valiant youth resort,
And from his memory inflame their breasts
To matchless valour and adventures high.


FOOTNOTES:

[AC] "Samson Agonistes" (that is, "Samson the Athlete, or
Wrestler"), Milton's tragedy, cast in a classical mould, was composed
after "Paradise Regained" was written, and after "Paradise Lost" was
published. It was issued in 1671. No reader with knowledge can avoid
associating the poem in a personal way with Milton, who, like Samson,
was blind, living in the midst of enemies, and to some extent deserted;
and, like him too, did not lose heart on behalf of the life's cause
which, unlike Samson, he had never betrayed. As becomes a drama, it
has more vigorously sustained movement than any of Milton's works. The
familiar story is skilfully developed and relieved, and the formality
of the style does not detract from the pity and beauty, while it adds
to the dignity of the work.




MOLIERE[AD]




The Doctor in Spite of Himself


_Persons in the Play_

SGANARELLE
MARTINE, _Sganarelle's wife_
LUCAS
JACQUELINE, _Lucas's wife, and nurse at M. Geronte's_
GERONTE
LUCINDE, _Geronte's daughter_
LEANDRE, _her lover_
VALERE, _Geronte's attendant_


ACT I

Just when the day has been fixed for the marriage of Lucinde, daughter
of M. Geronte, she suddenly becomes dumb, and no doctors are found
skillful enough to cure her. One day Valere, M. Geronte's attendant,
and Lucas, the nurse, are scouring the country in search of someone
able to restore their young mistress's speech, when they fell in with
Martine, the wife of Sganarelle, a bibulous faggot-binder. Sganarelle,
who has served a famous doctor for ten years, has just been beating
his wife, and she, in revenge, hearing the kind of person they are
looking for, strongly recommends her husband to them as an eccentric
doctor who has performed wonderful and almost incredible cures, but
who always disclaims his profession, and will never practice it until
he has been well cudgelled. Lucas and Valere accordingly go in quest
of Sganarelle, and, having found him, express their desire of availing
themselves of his services as doctor. At first the faggot-binder
vehemently denies that he is a doctor, but at last--thanks to the use
of the persuasion recommended by Martine--he confesses to a knowledge
of the physician's art, is induced to undertake the cure of Mlle.
Lucinde, and, on being introduced at M. Geronte's house, gives proof
of his eccentricity as a doctor by cudgelling the master and embracing
the nurse.

[_Enter_ LUCINDE, VALERE, GERONTE, LUCAS, Sganarelle,
_and_ JACQUELINE.

SGANARELLE: Is this the patient?

GERONTE: Yes. I have but one daughter; I should
feel inexpressible grief were she to die.

SGANARELLE: Don't let her do anything of the kind.
She must not die without a doctor's prescription.

GERONTE: You have made her laugh, monsieur.

SGANARELLE: It is the best symptom in the world
when the doctor makes his patient laugh. What sort
of pain do you feel?

LUCINDE (_replies by signs, putting her hand to her
mouth, to her head, and under her chin_): Ha, hi, ho, ha!

SGANARELLE (_imitating her_): Ha, hi, ho, ha! I don't
understand you.

GERONTE: That is what her complaint is, monsieur.
She became dumb, without our being able to find out the
cause. It is this accident which has made us put off the
marriage. The man she is going to marry wishes to wait
till she gets better.

SGANARELLE: Who is the fool that does not want his
wife to be dumb? Would to heaven that mine had that
complaint! I would take good care she did not recover
her speech.

GERONTE: Well, monsieur, I beg of you to take all
possible pains to cure her of this illness.

SGANARELLE (_to the patient_): Let me feel your pulse.
This tells me your daughter is dumb.

GERONTE: Yes, monsieur, that is just what her illness
is; you have found it out the very first time.

SGANARELLE: We great doctors, we know things at once.
An ignorant person would have been puzzled, and would
have said to you: "It is this, it is that. " But I
was right the very first time. I tell you your daughter
is dumb.

GERONTE: But I should be very pleased if you could
tell me how this
happened.

SGANARELLE: It is because she has lost her speech.

GERONTE: But, please, what was the cause of the loss
of speech?

SGANARELLE: All our best authorities will tell you that
it is an impediment in the action of her tongue.

GERONTE: But, nevertheless, let us have your opinion on
this impediment in the action of her tongue.

SGANARELLE: I hold that this impediment in the
action of her tongue is caused by certain humours,
which among us learned men are called peccant humours.
For as the vapours formed by the exhalations of the
influences which arise in the region of complaints,
coming--so to speak--to--Do you know Latin?

GERONTE: In no sort of way.

SGANARELLE (_rising in astonishment_): You don't know Latin?

GERONTE: No.

SGANARELLE (_assuming various amusing attitudes_):
_Singulariter, nominativo haec musa_, "the muse," _bonus_,
_bona, bonum, Deus sanctus, estne oratio latenas?
Quare_? "Why? " _Luia substantivo et adjectivum
concordat in generi, numerum, et casus_.

GERONTE: Oh! Why did I not study?

JACQUELINE: What a clever man he is!

SGANARELLE: Thus these vapours of which I speak
passing from the left side, where the liver is, to the right
side where the heart is, it happens that the lungs, which
we call in Latin _armyan_, having communication with the
brain, which in Greek we name _nasmus_, by means of the
_vena cava_, which we call in Hebrew _cubile_, in their way
meet the said vapours, which fill the ventricles of the
omoplata; and as the said vapours--be sure you understand
this argument, I beg you--and as these said vapours have
a certain malignancy--listen carefully to this, I pray you.

GERONTE: Yes.

SGANARELLE: Are gifted with a certain malignancy
which is caused--please pay attention----

GERONTE: I am doing so.

SGANARELLE: Which is caused by the acridity of the
humour engendered in the concavity of the diaphragm, it
happens that these vapours--_Ossabundus, nequezs, nequer,
potarinum, quipsa milus_. That is just what makes your
daughter dumb.

GERONTE: No one, doubtless, could argue better.
There is but one thing that puzzles me. It seems to me
that you place the heart and liver differently from where
they are; the heart is on the left side, and the liver on
the right.

SGANARELLE: Yes, that was so formerly; but we have
changed all that, and nowadays we practise medicine by
an entirely new method.

GERONTE: I did not know that. I must ask you to
pardon my ignorance.

SGANARELLE: There is no harm done. You are not
obliged to be as clever as we are.
GERONTE: Certainly not. But what do you think,
monsieur, ought to be done for this complaint?

SGANARELLE: My advice is that she should be put to
bed, and, for a remedy, you must see that she takes plenty
of bread soaked in wine.

GERONTE: Why so, monsieur?

SGANARELLE: Because in bread and wine mixed together
there is a sympathetic virtue which causes speech.
Don't you know that they give nothing else to parrots,
and that they learn to speak by being fed on this diet?

GERONTE: That is true. What a great man you are!
Quick, bring plenty of bread and wine.

SGANARELLE: I shall come back at night to see how
she is getting on.

GERONTE: Just wait a moment, please.

SGANARELLE: What do you want?

GERONTE: To give you your fee, monsieur.

SGANARELLE (_holding out his hand from under his
gown, while Geronte opens his purse_): I shall not take it,
monsieur.

GERONTE: I beseech you.

SGANARELLE: You are jesting.

GERONTE: That is settled.

SGANARELLE: I will not.

GERONTE: What!

SGANARELLE: I don't practise for money.

GERONTE: I am sure you don't.

SGANARELLE (_after having taken the money_): Is it
good weight?

GERONTE: Yes, monsieur.

SGANARELLE: I am not a mercenary doctor.

GERONTE: I know that.

SGANARELLE: Self-interest is not my motive.

GERONTE: I never for a moment thought it was.

[_Exit_.


ACT II

Leandre, between whom and Lucinde a mutual attachment subsists, has
an interview with Sganarelle, at which he implores the latter's
assistance to obtain a meeting with his mistress, and tells him that
her dumbness is a mere trick--a sham illness which she has feigned
to free herself from a distasteful marriage into which her father
wants to hurry her. In consideration of a purse of gold which Leandre
gives him, Sganarelle introduces the young lover into M. Geronte's
house as his apothecary, and when Leandre asks whether it is not
necessary to know five or six long medical words with which to lard
his conversation, ridicules the notion, and says that a medical dress
is quite sufficient disguise. "I am resolved to stick to physic all my
life," says Sganarelle. "I find that it is the best line of all; for
whatever we do, right or wrong, we are paid, all the same. Blunders
make no odds to us; we cut away the material we have to work with as
we choose. A shoemaker, in making a pair of shoes, cannot spoil a
scrap of leather without having to pay for it; but in this business we
can spoil a man without its costing us a cent. The mistakes are never
put down to our account; it is always the fault of the fellow who
dies. "

[_Enter_ JACQUELINE, LUCINDE, GERONTE, LEANDRE _and_ SGANARELLE.

JACQUELINE: Here's your daughter, monsieur. She
wishes to walk a bit.

SGANARELLE: It will do her good. Go to her, Mr.
Apothecary, and feel her pulse, and I will consult with
you presently about her malady. (_At this point he draws_
GERONTE _to one side of the stage, puts one arm on his
shoulders, places his hand under his chin, and makes him
turn towards him, whenever_ GERONTE _wants to see what
is going on between his daughter and the apothecary,
while he holds the following discourse with him to keep
his attention_:) Monsieur, it is a great and subtle question
among doctors whether women are easier to cure
than men. I beg you please listen to this. Some say
"no," some say "yes. " I say both "yes" and "no";
for as the incongruity of the opaque humours which are
found in the natural temperament of women causes the
animal side always to struggle for mastery over the
spiritual, we find that the inequality of their opinions
depends on the oblique motion of the circle of the moon;
and as the sun----

LUCINDE: NO, I can never change my feelings.

GERONTE: Hark! My daughter speaks! O the great
virtue of physic! How deeply am I indebted to you,
monsieur, for this marvellous cure!

SGANARELLE (_walking about the stage, wiping his
forehead)_: It is a complaint that has given me much
trouble.

LUCINDE: Yes, father, I have recovered my speech;
but I have recovered it only to tell you that I will never
have any other husband than Leandre.

GERONTE: But----

LUCINDE: Nothing will shake the resolution I have
taken.

GERONTE: What----

LUCINDE: All your excellent reasons will be in vain.

GERONTE: If----

LUCINDE: All your talk will have no effect.

GERONTE: I----

LUCINDE: It is a subject on which I am quite determined.

GERONTE: But----

LUCINDE: No paternal power can force me to marry
against my will.

GERONTE: I have----

LUCINDE: You can make every effort you like.

GERONTE: It----

LUCINDE: My heart cannot submit to such a tyranny.

GERONTE: There----

LUCINDE: And I will sooner throw myself into a convent
than marry a man I don't love.

GERONTE: But----

LUCINDE (_speaking in deafening tone of voice_): It
is no use. You waste your time. I will not do anything
of the kind. I am resolved.

GERONTE: Ah! What a wildness of speech! I beg
you, monsieur, to make her dumb again.

SGANARELLE: That is impossible. All that I can do
for you is to make you deaf, if you like.

GERONTE: You shall marry Horace this very evening.

LUCINDE: I will sooner marry death.

SGANARELLE: Let me take this disease in hand. It
is a complaint that has got hold of her, and I know the
remedy to apply.

GERONTE: Is it possible that you can cure this mental
malady also?

SGANARELLE: Yes; let me manage it. I have remedies
for everything, and our apothecary is the man for
this cure. (_He calls the apothecary, and speaks to him_. )
You see that the passion she has for this Leandre is quite
against the wishes of her father, and that it is necessary
to find a prompt remedy for the evil, which will only
become worse by delay. For my part, I see but one
remedy, a dose of purgative flight suitably mixed with
two drachms of matrimony in pills. Go and take a little
turn in the garden with her to prepare the humours,
while I talk here with her father; but, above all, lose
no time. Apply the remedy at once--apply the specific
remedy.

[_Exeunt_ LEANDRE _and_ LUCINDE. _Enter_ LUCAS _and_
MARTINE.

LUCAS: Your daughter has run away with Leandre.
He was the apothecary, and this is the doctor who has
performed the operation.

GERONTE: Quick, fetch the police, and prevent him
from going off! Oh, traitor, I will have you punished
by law.

LUCAS: You shall hang for this, doctor! Don't stir a
step from here!

[_Re-enter_ LEANDRE _and_ LUCINDE.

LEANDRE: Monsieur, I appear before you as Leandre,
and to restore Lucinde to your authority. We intended
to go off and to get married, but this undertaking has
given place to a more honourable proceeding. It is only
from your hands that I will receive Lucinde. I have
to tell you, monsieur, that I have just received letters
from which I learn that my uncle is dead, and that I am
the heir to all his property.

GERONTE: Monsieur, your virtue merits every consideration,
and I give you my daughter with the greatest
pleasure in the world.

SGANARELLE: Physic has had a narrow escape.

MARTINE: Since you are not going to be hanged, you
may thank me for making you a doctor. It was I who
gained you that honour.

SGANARELLE: I forgive you the beating because of the
dignity to which you have raised me, but be prepared
henceforth to show great respect towards a man of my
consequence; and remember that a doctor's anger is
more to be feared than folk imagine.


(MOLIERE: _Continued in Vol. XVIII_)




_Printed in the United States of America_


FOOTNOTES:

[AD] Moliere, whose real name was Jean Baptiste Poquelin, the
name Moliere not having been assumed until he had commenced authorship,
was born at Paris, January 15, 1622. Almost nothing is known of his
early life, except that in his fourteenth year he was sent to the
Jesuit College de Clermont, in Paris, and that later he studied law. In
1645 he suddenly appeared upon the stage as a member of a company of
strolling players, and later, through the recommendation of influential
friends, his company gained permission to act before the King. His
comedies soon placed him in the front rank of French dramatists, and he
is now regarded as perhaps the greatest of all comic dramatists. Of all
the learned classes that fell under Moliere's merciless lash, none came
so completely as the profession of medicine. This is especially the
case in "The Doctor in Spite of Himself" ("Lie Medecin Malgre Lui"),
which appeared in June, 1666, and in which Moliere himself played the
role of Sganarelle.

The piece was originally acted with the "Misanthrope," but its
immediate and pronounced success justified its being put on the bill
alone. Both in conception and in motive the "Doctor" is frankly
farcical, yet the lines abound in delicious satire, and on occasions
melt from sheer buffoonery into graceful comedy. Moliere died on
February 17, 1673.






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