The Children

THE NEW ATLANTIC SERIAL

BY NINA FEDOROVA

AUTHOR OF THE $10,000 PRIZE NOVEL, THE FAMILY

CHAPTERS I-VI

THE CHILDREN.

I

BY NINA FEDOROVA

HAVE you any children?’

‘Six.’

‘Six?’

The lady behind the counter looked up. Hostility was in her eyes. She said nothing to the customer standing on the other side of the counter, but addressed another lady, at her right hand, in a voice intentionally insulting and loud: —

‘Mrs. Brown, did you hear that? Six children. Egoism or imbecility? How can we help people if they are like that, with six children?’

She knew she should not speak like that to the alien woman’s face. But the habit of being secure misleads people occasionally. So the lady said once more with disdain: —

‘Six! We should give the refugees some good reading on birth control. . . .’

Suddenly she met the customer’s eyes. Hatred looked out of them, the more poignant and striking since it was looking out of a gentle and weary feminine face.

‘How do my children concern you?’ the woman asked, and her breath grew short and audible.

’How?' And now the other’s voice sounded hideous with hatred too. ‘We are charity workers. This is a charity rummage sale. . . . You need help, we give it. Here you buy our things almost for nothing and the money again goes to the poor of Tientsin. . . .’

‘You are helping me? With that?'

And as if seeing the room for the first time, the woman pointed with an open rounded gesture of her arms.

One can rarely view a more repulsive sight than that of a rummage sale, provided things are really old and dirty. Those were.

Embracing the room in a single glance, the woman finally looked at the thing she held in her hand. It was a pair of socks. Woolen they were but well worn. Fifteen cents. She looked intensively, as if those old, colorless, pathetic socks coming from the feet of a mysterious benefactor had hidden somewhere in them the key to the problems of poverty and rummage sales. Then slowly she put them back and looking straight into the lady’s face she said sadly and simply: —

‘In a few years, you will stand on this side of the counter too. . . .’

Here Mrs. Brown, who acted as the president of the sale, cried: —

‘Get out!’ and she lifted her hand. Although the hand was empty, the woman at the other side of the counter winced and the thin, pale girl beside her whispered: —

‘Let us go . . . Mamma, let us go . . .’

The room seemed suddenly flooded with malevolence and hatred. Everyone stared at everyone else with hostility. Not that those people, almost all of them women, were base or cruel, no, they were mostly kind people. Only they lived so much and so long on fear, anxiety, suspicion, that even the best of them grew liable to such fits of malfeasance.

‘Get out!’ Mrs. Brown said again, her voice almost low now.

A tense silence pervaded the room. Customers — Russians and Chinese — and the charity workers behind their counters, all were silent. Hardly half of them could guess what it all had been about, still everyone’s heart beat quicker, astir with the awakened hatred of class to class, of race to race, of one human being to another.

The girl took her mother by the arm and they crossed the room under the flushing eyes of the beholders.

Suddenly a very young girl, tall and slender, walked quickly toward Mrs. Brown’s counter, and as if her words had been released by a spring, she cried in a voice full of emotion: —

‘You!’ But instantly afraid and timid she finished gently: ‘You are not altogether right’ . . . and she ran out of the room.

Above the storm of voices, the best heard was that of the stout Mme. Klimova. Knowing but little English she did not catch what the girl had said. Still, ‘Lida,’ she cried in a shocked twang, willing to show that she, Mme. Klimova, was on the donors’ side.

Several customers, poor Russian women, left the room. One of them, her foot on the threshold, said grievously, addressing nobody in particular: —

‘No place is left upon the earth where people do not hate each other . . . the Lord’s wrath is on all of us . . .'

Mrs. Brown, born a monolith of common sense, regained her emotional balance as quickly as she had lost it: —

‘Be ready for any impudence once you attend a rummage sale.’

And her words sealed the incident.

Mrs. Brown — the President. Mrs. Brown was the president everywhere, in every society she stepped into. And this was unanimous, her election to the presidency. Nobody ever said a word against Mrs. Brown being the president. Never, even to one’s bosom friend, not even behind her back.

Mrs. Brown gave so much: her actual presence, her personal guidance, care, and attention. She even gave money. Sometimes. In cases of direst necessity.

Making other people happy was Mrs. Brown’s vocation. Why not, if one knows how? And she was a connoisseur of ways and means. For thirty years she practised her cleverness on the vast and sterile fields of China.

A banker’s wife, she never believed that money was very important. She, personally, valued so much more those abstract things. The wonder was that after thirty years of living exclusively for the suffering part of humanity neither the health nor the wealth of Mrs. Brown had been impaired. No. The more she gave the more she had. The more humanity suffered, the more excited Mrs. Brown became, with all those new opportunities of presidency before her. Mrs. Brown had always risen superior to the tasks life thrust on her. And there she stood — big, stout, wealthy, healthy, busy, all aglow in her cerise dress with galloons and tassels and big buttons. She looked like a general leading an everlastingly victorious battle.

Mr. Rind, the honored guest, an American, a traveler, with his curiosity always ablaze, had not caught the key of the scene. ‘What is that? What happened?’ he repeated looking round. But Mrs. Brown’s glance iced the tongues and he found no volunteers to explain. The temperature fell back to normal, and the rummage sale looked again a rummage sale, no more a forge of human passions.

Even Mme. Klimova — after having shown that her sympathy had been as usual with the powerful, for they always had the means to prove they were right —even Mme. Klimova forgot the incident. Hers was not. an easy purchase to manage. She wanted a wedding dress. Yes, for herself. An attire fit to wear when she was married in church, to a general. A dress in which to start a new existence as ‘Madame la Générate’ . . . after a long dawdling as somebody’s widow

The rummage sale could not offer many wedding dresses of Mme. Klimova’s size. The possibilities soon narrowed down to a few loose draperies. As she paid her dollar and fifty cents she tried to show her courtesy again and said to the lady behind the counter: —

‘Some Russians are even worse than Chinese. When Chinese are poor they behave.’

But the lady did not deign to understand her English. She gave change and said curtly: ‘Thank you.’

II

The girl whom Mme. Klimova had called Lida looked quickly along one side of the street, then the other, her light blonde hair tasseled by the fresh October wind, interfering with her vision. At last she saw the two figures crossing the street farther down and ran after them.

With a movement timid and gallant at the same time, she introduced herself : —

‘Please,’ and she shook hands. ‘I saw at once you are newcomers here. At Tientsin we know all our Russians, if only by sight. We live near, here, on the British Concession. . . . Will you come to our house? Mother would be so glad.’

Although Lida and her mother were only two and alone in China, they never gave up the habit of speaking in a style of grandeur about themselves as a ‘family.’ Lida always said ‘we,’ and their room in the attic was a ‘house’ in her language.

The woman, Mme. Platova, and her daughter Galina considered the invitation in silence.

‘But, perhaps, your mother is busy?’ the woman said at last.

‘Oh, no!’ Lida answered radiantly. ‘Not at all. It is Mother’s best day, all free.’

The invitation seemed tempting. The Platovs had come to Tientsin early in the morning and planned to leave at midnight. They could not indulge in expense and had decided to spend the day just moving around the town. Now it was a temptation to have a rest.

‘But are you sure your mother has nothing to do? . . . Would not we be intruders?’

‘Why, no,’ Lida assured them. ‘ Mother is on night duty. She is a nurse in the hospital. So she has all the day for herself . . . And she will be so glad. Please, come . . .’

Meanwhile she was rapidly making decisions: —

‘I will not buy that sweater ... in any case, I cannot go back to that sale.’ And being amply aware of a dollar squeezed in her left fist she went on mentally plotting: ‘Thirty cents for five buns . . . some butter, milk . . .’

‘Thank you,’ Mme. Platova said. ‘I think, perhaps, we might . . . just for a moment.’

The attic room was high up, and both Lida and Galina had to help the tired woman up the narrow stairs. The door was flung open gaily and they were met with a cordial welcome.

Poverty frankly and brazenly grinned at them out of each corner. The room was pervaded with its breath. It mantled the walls, shaded the windowpanes, polished the furniture. It slept with dust, and danced with sun rays. In time it would gnaw deeply into brains and hearts. It is poverty that makes steps cautious, words prudent. It stunts ambitions and grinds down hopes. It makes a fizzle out of the life of so many families.

Still it can be lived with. It simply becomes a part of one’s existence like a chronic disease.

In that room the visitors felt instantly at home. They were the same class.

They all of them wore clothes from which all radiance of color and design had faded away long ago (as had also many of their hopes and illusions). All that was left was the sheer substance of tissue, woof and warp, warp and woof — and also the mere substance of life — days and nights, nights and days, until that sheer substance would be worn through, into a nothingness, a hole, a gap made of vacuity, with no more threads to support it, no more woof and warp, and then no more days and nights.

Colors turn to gray with a pauper, but a friendly welcome, even to poverty, pours forth a golden light. Both the visitors and the hosts were glad to meet each other.

While the girls went downstairs to the kitchen, busy with preparations for tea, the mothers began an earnest conversation. Mme. Platova, again excited, told about the incident at the rummage sale. Now she felt differently about it, and her face and voice showed repentance.

‘Least of all could I stand that reproach for having had my children. Those scientifically-minded people presume that having no country, no money, no fixed social standing, one must not bear children. But, my dear, exactly because we have nothing else we need our children so much — to concentrate on them what feelings we would otherwise spend on something else. If one’s children can be born healthy, is it not a duty to have them? . . . Oh, dear, it is they, our children, those like my six, will be taken to fight the next war ... to fight and die — to protect their sterile lives and their barren efforts to make life fair and square. . . .’

And again her breath became short and difficult.

‘You said war,’ her hostess asked softly. ‘Is it evident that there will be soon another war in Europe? I read almost nothing, and even those Munich days have no clear meaning to me.’

While the question of the coming war was thus discussed, the girls brought in tea.

The decorum of four planned and regular meals a day had been dropped by the ‘family’ long ago. Dropped and forgotten. Tea and bread were their usual diet; anything else could break in occasionally, but not necessarily. The tea was hot and gave warmth, the bread was thick and gave one the feeling of having eaten — thus the rite of feeding oneself was performed, even if somewhat perfunctorily. A scientific attitude toward food — vitamins and calories — is not popular among the refugees in China.

But tea was poured, buns were nicely cut into quarters, and with sugar, milk, and butter — that was a tea to be offered with the lordly smile of a hostess.

All were in haste with their first cups. Then followed a moment of relaxation and slower drinking.

The girls with their cups sat at the window, for there was no place at the small table, and Lida was telling Galina in whispers the story of her great love.

It was always puzzling to Lida that put into plain words her story invariably turned into a poor thing, like this.

There was an American boy in Tientsin. That boy was the best boy in the world. His name was Jimmy. Lida and Jimmy met. They fell in love. Jimmy gave her a watch, that one, now on her wrist. But Jimmy had to go to the United States. Lida had to remain. They promised to love each other for ever. They wrote letters.

That was all. Still, even in that shape, it seemed absorbing to another girl, and from time to time she gave out exclamations, as if being told things incredible and wondrous.

The mothers were busy with their conversation too.

‘ How many children have you?' Mme. Plat ova asked.

‘Children?’ Lida’s mother repeated slowly, and she clasped her thin hands lightly, in a quick gesture of restraint. ‘Lida is my only child. We used to be a big family. Some left, some died . . .’

‘Are you a widow?’

Mother’s fingers clasped tighter. ‘No,’ she said, ‘Lida’s father lives in Russia.’

‘In Russia!’ Mme. Platova’s voice rose high with interest. ‘Are you expecting him to come here? Or do you plan to go there?’

‘No,’ Mother answered slowly. ‘Neither.’ She unclasped her hands and her tired fingers lay quietly on her knees. ‘Lida’s father left us for good. He married a second time. He has children from his second marriage. Two boys. They all live happily.’

Mme. Platova felt uneasy. She instantly turned to another topic.

‘Perhaps I should tell you more about us. Why we are here, at Tientsin. My eldest son, Vladimir, lives in Shanghai. He has a job there — he plays the violin in a night club. Well, the job pays — monthly he sends us forty dollars— thus is our rent paid at Harbin, where we are living. Still I cannot keep quiet: a night club is not a proper place for a boy. Vladimir is twenty-one . . . the things he sees there . . . the things he hears. Some say night-club musicians turn out drunkards. They have to keep late hours — first it is a cup of coffee, then a glass of beer — two, three years — and one’s child has bad habits. . . . Another sorrow, my child Galina,’ she moved her head toward the window where the girls whispered, — ‘ this child is unhappy; she hurt her spine long ago, and has constant pains. Doctors sent us to Peking, to the Rockefeller Institution, for X-rays. . . . Ah, X-rays too cost money.’

‘Yes,’ Mother said shortly, ‘yes, everything does.’

‘We went to Peking, to the Rockefellers. . . . They even grew interested in her case. Now I cannot leave her here or send her home alone — and to take her with me to Shanghai — means two tickets.’

Mother put her hand on Mme. Platova’s knee and said warmly: —

‘Leave Galina with us, and with God’s help go to Shanghai. This room is all we have — still it offers space enough for the three.’

Mme. Plat ova’s face grew lighter and lighter, until it became radiant.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she said and smiled the pathetic smile of those who accept a gift and find nothing to give in exchange. ‘I will be so relieved then . . . so relieved.’

‘Mamma,’ Galina cried, ‘Lida can sing! Really sing! Oh, Lidochka, sing for us . . .’

‘I am afraid it would not sound well,’ Lida said. ‘I sing better in twilight, when I do not see things . . .’

But the visitors pressed her eagerly.

‘Lida,’ Mother said, ‘sing us the romance Granny liked . . .’

And Lida sang the old romance. She sang it in the old style of pure lyric, her voice high, quiet, melodious.

The room instantly yielded to the charm of music. With the first sounds of the song poverty quickly disappeared. A different room built itself for each of the four women. Sudden peace of soul and mind washed away the remnants of cares and sorrows. When the room was pure and ready, Beauty solemnly stepped in and worked the rest of the magic. She made the girls face the future and the women — the past. Here Joy, in streams, curst forth in the four hearts and hastily cured and healed and soothed and smoothed — until there remained no seams or scars on their memories. Laughing Imagination rushed forth and boldly drew gigantic pictures of things sweeter than they could ever be in life.

This was the only sure happiness in life — happiness in the nonexistent.

III

Galina tapped at the door: —

’Lida, it is three o’clock.'

With an effort Lida tore herself away from the book. She closed it. She sighed. She looked at Galina with distant eyes.

‘Lida, it is three o’clock. You asked me to call or else you would be late for your lesson.’

‘Thank you, Galina. I am going right now.’

Galina gently shut the door and went on downstairs. But Lida could not bring herself back to real life. She had been reading Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther, and the words still held her: —

Charlotta stood up. She attempted to withdraw her hand. I held it still: ‘We shall see each other again,’ I exclaimed, ‘we shall recognize each other under every possible change.’

‘Lida, dear,’ Galina’s voice insisted. ‘You will be late.’

‘Yes, Galina. I am going right now.’

Lida went to the window and put her head out. She could see only the high ridged roofs, the tops of the trees, all bare now, and tall sooty chimneys. She lifted her eyes higher—sky! The sky.

‘ We shall recognize each other under every possible changed she whispered, ‘Jimmy and I ... I know we shall. Even now — with the Pacific Ocean between us, do I not recognize him everywhere, under any disguise, for all which gives joy to me is Jimmy — disguised, still he. This space, this depth of the sky — it is our love.’

‘Lida! Are you coming?’ Galina’s voice came from below the stairs.

‘Coming!’ Lida cried in answer.

Lida did not have Jimmy’s photo. Had she not him always before her eyes? Was he not always present in her thoughts, whatever she did, wherever she went? Could she forget him? Could she ever forget him? Even if she tried hard? The time and space between them, winds and ocean, were not strong enough to sweep away their love.

‘Lida!’

‘Coming!’

On the steps of the entrance a dog was sitting. Dog. He had no other name. He remained Dog. He never answered that funny name of Don Juan Tenorio which Carlos Diaz, his third master, once tried to give him. When the boy Carlos had gone off to a boarding school, Dog had been left to himself.

On the steps he was now sitting. Quietly. Concentrating on the vision of his own inner life, the obscure life of an animal.

‘Dog,’ Lida called to him. She sat beside the dog on the steps, embraced his reluctant neck with her arms and said again in a whisper: —

‘ Doggy, we are neglected ... we are forgotten . . . we have no letter this week . . .’

Dog remained stony calm. Not touched. Not at all. He knew the fickleness of human affection. They talk to dogs when they have no letters . . . What is a dog to happy people? A nuisance, usually. Making an effort to escape Lida, and her whisper, and her embrace, he moved a little, politely but decidedly, and then again, as if frozen, merged into his favorite shape — a dog on the steps, brooding over his own problems.

‘ Doggy, we are not loved so much any more . . . What do you think?’

Dog refused to think. Non-interference. Non-response. Quiet is the ideal of a philosopher’s life. Affections are scorned. An intelligent dog once disappointed would not believe in human loyalty ... To sit there gazing at nothing in particular . . . oh, let a dog alone . . .

‘Doggy,’ Lida said again, ‘I am going now. Keep sitting here, waiting for mail. Anything may happen. Suppose we have a special delivery?’

Dog raised his head and gave her one of his rare direct glances — eye to eye — a glance of omniscient and shattering understanding. It was as if he said: —

‘And what about me? What about those who were born dogs?’

Lida felt uneasy under that steady and lucid gaze, deeper than human in intelligence. She rose up. She had to go.

Mme. Manuilova’s life was brightened only by Lida’s presence. In her youth Mme. Manuilova had been a great opera singer. Those were radiant years of fame and love, each day raising her higher and higher, to greater happiness, to brighter fame, and then suddenly broken to pieces with nothing left out of all that splendor, except memories sharp and cutting, as pieces of crystal which were once a wonderful whole. Happiness turned into a painful deception. Life turned into a doleful nothingness. Her name known all over Europe now brightened the memories of only a few old lovers of music. Her face adored, admired, worshiped by those who saw it near, by those who saw it only from afar, by those who saw it only on picture postcards, that face now bore scars of pain and wrinkles of time. Old, old . . . The famous voice was now as unsure as the feet of a child at its first attempt to walk.

Old age found her alone in China, living and counting — counting which would come to an end sooner: her money or her life. In China, cut off from European musical interests, ‘with not a single joy or hope in the future, she found Lida and saw in her the possibilities of a great singer. Mme. Manuilova offered her help and guidance free. She taught the girl not only music and singing but also languages, literature, history, manners, everything. Together, they started a new life, Lida moving toward a glorious future, Mme. Manuilova living once more in her artistic youth.

Today, lessons finished, she said: —

‘Now, Lida, one of these days I should like to see your mother. We must discuss some plans concerning your future.’

‘Plans? My future?’

‘Yes. I should like to take you to Harbin for Christmas and to see you singing in concerts there. In the spring we will go to Shanghai. And before all that you must have your first appearance here, at Tientsin. Just this day I had an invitation from Mrs. Brown.’

‘No, Nadejda Petrovna, no . . . You are not serious? ‘

‘Yes, Lida, it is time you began . . .?

‘I cannot. I will be afraid . . .’

‘That is why you must begin. You have to go through it.’

Suddenly Lida was all radiance.

‘Oh, Nadejda Petrovna, oh dear! Really, you think I can sing in concerts? I must write a letter about that to Jimmy!’

All the rest of that day Lida was exuberantly happy. There was nobody in the house to share her joy. Mother was on duty at the hospital. Galina had gone to church. The Diazes, who gave a free room in the attic to Mother and Lida, had gone somewhere, too. She found the house quiet and empty. Only the Chinese cook was in the kitchen peeling potatoes for the Diazes.

‘Cook,’ she said, standing on the threshold of the kitchen, ‘Cook, have you heard me sing?’

‘No. Today me have not.’

‘Not just today, how I sing in general . . . What do you think? Is my singing grand? Ah? Say, Cook?’

The cook looked attentively at the potatoes in the bowl.

‘All singing,’ he said, ‘has its points . . .’

‘What do you mean by “points”?’

‘Standpoints . . .’he said subtly and coolly and his hands grew quick with potatoes.

Lida felt disappointed. She stood in the frame of the door opening into the back yard. November . . . barrenness of soil, deprived of covers. A few dry stalks of rose mallow stuck up out of furrows in one corner ... a few weeds tall and gray, in another. Last spring’s flowers. They had become dry weeds dismally swayed by the wind. They gave out a light, dry, almost unperceptible sound, but Lida’s ears caught it, and her heart repeated the rhythm. The autumn winds have dismal tunes.

Lida took a few slow steps into the yard.

The face of the fish pond was dead, unresponsive. Its greenish efflorescence smelt of decay.

She went to the Diazes’ sitting room and sat at the piano. When nobody was in the house, the hours were hers for practice.

She began to play. But she had an urge to sing, to sing in a full-voice, a song she sang once for Jimmy, in the garden.

Softly the door opened and Leon entered the sitting room. He was the Diazes’ eldest son, about twenty. He was tall and strikingly handsome, in the best and noblest of Spanish styles.

He slowly approached the piano and stood behind, listening.

‘Leon!’ Lida cried when she felt his presence. ‘Leon, happy news!’

‘A letter from Jimmy? Special delivery?’ His tone was gentle, but mocking.

‘No!’ Lida suddenly grew sad. ‘Not that much. But Mme. Manuilova said I am ready for concerts. Really, she said. Are you astonished?’

’I am never astonished at you, Lida,’ Leon said softly. ‘You deserve every happiness.’

‘Why? How do you know?’

‘Because you never think you deserve it.’

‘Leon, you always say something which makes me feel a señorita. With you I feel always in an opera box! Come nearer, listen! I have music in my heart. I begin to think in music. I feel I could create music, by myself.’

He leaned against the piano and looked at her with admiring attention.

‘All the world could be expressed in music. People, too. Your mother is this — listen — from Bach . . . your father is this from Beethoven, my mother is Tchaikovsky’s “Symphonie Pathétique” . . .’ and she played and sang melodies to illustrate her words.

‘And I?’ Leon said.

‘You, Leon, you are Brahms’s “Second Hungarian Dance.” Here is your vitality. Listen . . . your hidden feelings . . .’and she sang it in a full radiant voice.

‘My hidden feelings? Have I some?’

‘Oh, I do not know why I said “hidden.” All my life I will remember you at these sounds of Brahms.’

‘And you, Lida? What are you in music? ‘

‘I and Jimmy? We are this . . . no! For us I must create music myself,’ she grew shy and said timidly: ‘I tried, listen ‘ — and she sang and played: —

Suddenly she struck a shrill false note and, jarred by it, stopped.

Leon bent. He took the finger which made the fault and bringing it to his lips he tenderly kissed it.

IV

Mme. Platova came back to Tientsin. She looked smaller and less vital. She resembled the residue of a fruit from which all the juice had been squeezed. Mother instantly knew how the visitor felt by the look in her eyes. She insisted that Mme. Platova should rest overnight and only then return with Galina to Harbin. A room which can house three women is always ready to house the fourth.

Thus again the two mothers were sitting at the small table with their cups of tea, which in this case had to replace a supper. After the first cup Mme. Platova was able to talk. Of course, conversations never help where practical problems arc involved; still a sorrow well told becomes not only bearable but almost attractive.

‘What I cannot put up with is the casualness of our existence. Really, we feel no solid ground under our feet. We never know what our next day will be like. In vain we try to bring into our children’s life some principles of stability, continuity . . . Every day one has to begin from the very beginning . . . We plan this, we try that . . . There is no unity nor sense in such a precarious existence.’

‘That used to be my worry, too,’ Lida’s mother said quietly, ‘when I was younger. Then I found out that there is always an inner unity in one’s life. Everything which happens is answering a need for its coming ... I found that out for myself and gave up worry . . . everything has sense . . .’

‘Oh, you did?’ The guest’s voice sounded eager. ‘But what exactly have you found for yourself? You mean you know why all that sorrow came your way?’

‘I think I know,’ Mother said slowly. ‘ I was proud. Very proud. Not because of my looks, or breeding, or money — no, worse than that. I was proud of myself . . . mine was a spiritual pride . . . I came from generations of proud people. I kept apart and lofty. Never willingly mixing with others. Well, life is pitiless to the extremes, bad or good. There is a certain moral law, as well as a physical one, which works to bring the extremes to a level ... I wholly deserved my fate. My life had to be a lesson in humility . . . only it took me twenty years to find joy in my acquired knowledge. I am glad I had it. Pride is a mortal sin.’

‘Yes, the only beautiful mortal sin,’ Mme. Platova answered.

‘Exactly. I was under the spell of that cold and false beauty. I am glad Lida is not like me. She begins with humility . . . Her life will be easier.’

‘It makes me good to listen to you . . . Really, I am, perhaps, too preoccupied with the small things of life, and miss its bigger conceptions . . . But, you know, it is hard to be a philosopher with six children in the house . . . for whom one finds no place in the world. We have even no passports for them . . . Must we try to get back to Russia ? Must we try to send them abroad, if only the boys . . . Where, how could our children be sheltered from the horrors of life? Where would their life be easier? To send them abroad?’

‘I did,’ said Mother low, ‘I let my nephew Dima go to England. A rich English lady adopted him. A good and kind woman . . . And now — is not England under the threat of a war, too? Will not our Dima face there just those things from which we tried to shelter him by sending him to England?’

‘With England it seems so unbelievable . . .’

‘Yes. We let the boy go. But then again . . . Suppose we kept Dima here. He was underfed, always, from his birth. He was growing up a very delicate boy . . . He could develop consumption . . . Such a dear boy’ . . . and she sighed.

‘Let yourself take it this way.’ Now Mme. Platova eagerly entered her rôle of a consoler. ‘Nobody knows about the future — if there will be a war in England or not — meanwhile the boy had a sea voyage, and this means so much for a child, for health and for his brains too. He had plenty of air, plenty of food — they have wonderful fare on those liners —new interests — the lady is kind — good treatment — why, only rich people can afford things that your boy is having. This change may render him so much stronger that he will meet better whatever happens to him in the future . . .’

The room seemed brighter with every word. The tea tasted much better too.

‘We race with time,’ Mme. Platova was saying. ‘Every year of quiet life is very important. It makes children so much stronger, more stable morally. It builds them. Now about my son Vladimir in Shanghai. Goodness ... I arrived in Shanghai late in the evening. I found his poor room all bare, but tidy. I looked over his things, counted his linen . . . you know the way boys sew buttons on, or mend ... I cried over his shirts . . . Then I felt I could not wait for him any longer. It was eleven o’clock and he could not come home until three o’clock in the morning.’

‘Do they keep such late hours?’

‘They do. I left the house. Shanghai is, in a way, fascinating at night. The streets were full of movement and lights . . . and the people . . . You never see that sort of people during the day.’

Here Lida and Galina entered the room, both fresh and cold, eager for tea. They put their cups on the window sill. Their supper — two sandwiches — was neatly arranged for them on two separate dishes. Busy with food they paid no attention to what Mme. Platova was saying.

‘That was the first time in my life I had entered a night club. “Stop Here” was the name. It was bitter to think there was no other place, no other work for a son of mine . . .’

And she sighed.

‘I had hardly entered when I saw a terrible brawl going on. Afterwards I knew what it was. Just a group of the American marines who had to return to their barracks before midnight. All were drunk, of course. There was one who did not want to go, just refused to move. The others, who could still think, realized the grave consequences of being late. They pushed him, they tried to drag him, all the rest of the guests and waiters helping, but he turned out to be the strongest of the crew, a prize athlete. He just kept sitting there. Then they began to beat him . . .’

Here the girls began to listen.

‘It was a terrible sight. This man, all red in face, his muscles tense and his neck purple, sat at a table and two marines kept beating him with a flowerpot. They held it by the stem of the plant and — under command of the onlookers — they beat and beat him on the head . . .'

A sigh of terror rose in the room.

‘Finally, the pot broke and the earth covered the man altogether. Then he rose up, — in the clouds of dust, — sneezed and cried out: “If you want to kill me, take another flowerpot . . .” ‘

The girls burst into laughter and the women began to laugh too.

‘Well,’ Mme. Platova said, ‘at that moment I did not laugh. I know my son was somewhere there. I rushed forward and cried: “Son, son, where are you?” The marine reached out toward me and cried: “Here I am, Ma!” Then I saw Vladimir. He knew I would be soon at Shanghai, he recognized me and ran toward me, too, and he cried: “Mother!” and then to the marine: “Let her go. She is my mother!” “Maybe, she is mine, too,” the marine cried, and wept and did not let me go . . .’

The girls now laughed helplessly.

‘Well,’ Mme. Platova said again, ‘It was not so gay for me at that moment . . .'

‘And what then? What then?' the girls pressed her.

‘The other marines urged that man to go, but he said he would move only if I led him by his hand, as his mother used to do, when he was a child. All urged me, too. You see, they were all drunk. The waiters were eager to put an end to the brawl, so they just pushed us out. Vladimir went with me . . . and there I was walking amidst a drunken crew of American marines, leading by the hand a big man, who sobbed.’

The girls laughed until tears came. Mme. Platova seemed on the verge of anger, but again she gave in and laughed too.

‘And the people on the streets were looking with glee ... I felt terribly unhappy . . . Imagine how it all seemed . . .’

‘But, Mamma,’ Galina interrupted her, ‘you always said that the important thing is not what things seem but what they are . . .’

‘And what are they, or were they?’ Mme. Platova said almost angrily. ‘There I was — your mother — in the group of drunken men, at night, in an unknown town . . . Well, happily, that big man soon came to himself.’

She sighed, then continued: —

He understood he had to be in the barracks before midnight. He let my hand free, he thanked me, calling me “Mother,” and insisted on giving me a present. He actually gave me one American dollar and insisted that I keep it.’

‘You have it?’

She looked for it in her handbag and finally found the silver dollar. It was the first American dollar they had ever seen. A big one, a heavy one. Real money of silver or gold is rare in Asia.

‘Mamma,’ Galina said suddenly, ‘he was a good man. What if he was drunk? I think he was a good man.’

‘And what will you do with the dollar?’ Lida said and caught her mother’s reproachful glance. Her look said it was not ‘good manners.’

Here Mme. Platova laughed gaily: —

‘We shall spend it for our Christmas tree. I always manage to give my children a Christmas tree. This year it will be with presents. After exchanging this dollar I will have eight of our Harbin dollars. We are eight. One can do things at a dollar per person! ‘

She went on now sadly: —

‘I had to leave my son there ... So far, Vladimir is all right, but I shall not have a moment of peace now. A young boy . . . He is handsome, too . . . He pays our rent. Still I asked him to come home and live with us. “Our house is dull without your violin,” I said. “You loved Chopin.” “Chopin is Chopin everywhere,” he said. ’I love his music even better when I see the squalor of this life around me.” . . . Well, I left him there’ . . . and she began to wipe tears with the end of her handkerchief.

It was time to go to sleep. They all had to go to bed at the same time, for there could be no spare space to move in the room. The only comfortable bed, a sofa, was given to the guest. Mme. Platova protested at first, but too tired after her three-day journey, she finally gave in.

Meanwhile a great wind arose outside, in the outer world. It came from the desert of Gobi and brought with it some sand not yet spent on the way. It slashed that dead dust of the desert against the walls and windows — with a howl and desolate sighs. Thousands of low sounds arose and made a symphony — the whine of a wire, screeching of a loose piece of thin iron, tapping of a wooden board, strange pinching sounds around the walls, as if somebody — blind — were cautiously moving around, trying to find the door and to be let in. . . .

Only Lida was deaf to it. She had had a letter from Jimmy that morning. She went to church to thank God for it in the evening, and now, happy, she slept and the doleful wind symphony was a lullaby.

The less happy are less ready with sleep.

The mystery of sleep was slow to come. It lingered on the threshold of life, prelude to unconsciousness, to a halt in living, to a hint of death.

When it came at last, all were at rest. Then deeply hidden, in the subconscious, an intensive motion began: disordered thoughts, occasional acts, unfinished sentences, tangled emotions, things one has been afraid to face, or those on which one lingered willingly — all began to interweave, to tie, to fix into a pattern, into a unity — and the soul was ready for a new day, which approached — all done, all ready, as fate.

V

Lida opened the window and looked down into the yard. There, below, the gate had clicked. She was on her guard for that sound. No matter what else she was doing, she was always listening for the mailman’s steps. Every moment could bring Jimmy’s letter. This time it did not.

Leon was crossing the yard. He looked up and met Lida’s eyes. From the attic window, so high above, she seemed illusory, unreal. She looked at him only for a brief moment, her eyes dilated and darkening with disappointment. His face grew sombre with the reflection of her disappointment at seeing him. No, ho was not that grinning Chinese mailman; she would not rush downstairs with a cry of joy to meet him.

Too busy with her thoughts, Lida made no sign of recognition. She did not even smile. Perhaps she did not know it. was Leon. She knew it was not the mailman. All the rest of the men in the town were of no interest to her.

And she disappeared into the attic. The window frame clicked.

Leon stood a minute longer looking up at the dead face of the closed window. With a reticence characteristic of him he made not a single movement to show how he felt. But that immobility for one full of his youthful vigor was a revelation in itself.

Lida was dejected. For ten days now she had not received any letters from Jimmy.

There arc certain moods of a human soul so burning, so deep, that they still remain beyond description. To be in love is one of them, to wait for letters — another. Lida, went simultaneously through both. She was living not from morning to evening, but from one mail to another. Those were the sharp moments of expectancy, time in between had to be endured, somehow suffered through.

She looked round and the room seemed barer to one now bereft of hope.

And this was the day of her first appearance in a concert.

Her dress, freshly ironed, lay on the sofa.

The door opened and Dog came in. He looked up. He saw things, their dimensions and proportions, from a different angle. He never was charmed with what he saw. Being a dog he saw no colors. For him the brightest attractions were smells. Among smells, the scents of food, and animals, and people. Among the people those who smelt naturally, of their flesh. He hated the scents of chemical compounds. And that girl, whom they called Lida, smelt of soap. Cheap soap. The cheapest soap. Here was the reason why Dog could not support Lida’s nearness for a long time. But she was unaware of it.

‘Dog!’ she said sadly. ‘ Doggy, we are singing today in a concert, for a great public. What do you say?’

Dog Said nothing. He only moved his jaws.

‘Could not you say something? Just a word for me. Just “Dear Lida, do not worry” . . . Say it.’

This was stupid, and the dog turned to leave.

‘Do you remember Dima?’ Lida asked him.

Dog lingered on the threshold.

‘ Dima was a dear boy. How we loved him. We cannot ever reconcile ourselves to his absence. Can we?’

That silly talk . . .

The dog looked at Lida once more. With scorn, almost with superiority. And left the room.

Later in the afternoon she went downstairs to the Diazes’ sitting room, ready for her concert. The mere fact of wearing her splendid dress — really magnificent with all its flounces and frills — elated Lida, and she entered the room with an aerial lightness.

The Diazes were a peculiar family. Each of them could speak several languages, yet they were mostly silent. Noble and quiet in appearance, they presented a beautiful and strange picture of still life when they sat together. Lida was always startled when she happened to step into a perfectly silent room and found it full of people. They would not move even their heads in sign of greeting, but only smiled faintly. Nobody was ever ill or unhappy, or very happy, in that family. They were the same, always. Never in haste, never in pain, never afraid, never in ecstasy or indignation. But volumes would be required to retell only the Countess’s life alone. She was born in a Russian aristocratic family, lost everyone and everything during the Revolution, married Count Diaz, whom she had known while he was attached to the Spanish Embassy, and left for Spain. She saw another revolution there, with losses of lives and property in their family, and then left for China exactly in time to witness the Japanese invasion. They did not belong to any political party, were repelled by the wrongdoings of each, and fatalistically endured poverty and exile. They remained always themselves — noble, quiet, and invariably benevolent to all.

Seeing Lida in her evening splendor, Maria, the daughter of the family, said: —

‘Beautiful.’

And the Countess asked: —

‘Ready for the concert? Who is coming for you?’

‘Nobody. I am going by myself.’

The idea of a young girl, fatherless, with her mother busy, going alone to her first concert seemed pathetic.

‘No,’ the Countess said, ‘you must not go alone. Where is Leon?’

‘Leon will not be home until nine o’clock,’ said Maria.

‘But I can go alone, all right,’ Lida said. Her excitement was dropping, for a reason she could not perceive.

‘How do you plan to get there, LidaC the Countess asked.

‘I will walk.’

‘Walk? In this dress?’

‘I could take a rickshaw. I have ten cents.’

Here the Count rose.

‘I shall go with you, Lida, and will remain there until Leon comes. You, my dear, send him as soon as he returns,’he added, addressing his daughter.

‘I shall help you to dress,’ the Countess offered, and they both left the room.

When the Count came back he wore his best suit and looked so distinguished that Lida suddenly felt important and all in a holiday mood. Shivering with anticipation, she left the room. The Count helped her into a taxi and Lida, shaken by this luxury, thanked him all the way. He listened first with a charming deference, then he said: —

‘Before a concert it is better not to talk for a while.’

When Lida entered the auditorium she was followed by cold, almost hostile glances. The audience consisted mostly of ladies. It was an ‘International Friendship’ reception, and foreign Tientsin was well represented. Lida was the only Russian there, for Russians are poor and international friendship is costly.

Mrs. Brown was the president there too. Her strategy of giving charity concerts was simple, but the outcome always successful. She fixed the prices for tickets and sent invitations. Those invitations were considered a great honor. They were looked forward to, counted on. To fail in receiving one meant almost social disaster. It happened when one’s social career was moving downhill. Of course, one could buy a ticket at the entrance, but that meant signing one’s social ostracism with one’s own hand.

In this élite gathering of foreign Tientsin Lida was unknown, and her appearance in a gala dress seemed near to being an offense. The ladies looked at her accordingly, but faces brightened when the Count entered the field of vision. Even those who did not know him felt happier — there could be no mistake about him. He produced something approaching a mild sensation.

Seeing so much splendor around and so little friendliness, Lida took her seat timidly beside the Count. Only now did she understand how she would have felt alone in that brilliantly lit and very spacious room, full of people so sure of their worth and superiority. Looking at the Count she felt proud to be with him.

I could have a father like him, she thought, and the idea of having a father seemed to her unbelievable luck. She tried to look a Count’s daughter and was sitting softly erect as she had been taught at home when Granny was alive, for Granny knew everything about good manners and was sure they made social life beautiful.

Meanwhile a lady opened the performance. She played a harp. That was the first harp Lida had ever seen.

This opening item on the program was more picturesque than musical. The scheme of colors had been carefully worked out. The harp was golden. The lady’s hair was dyed to match the harp, while her dress — the brightest blue velvet — was conceived to strike a note of contrast. The velvet was arranged to fall down in curved, almost audible folds. The next item was the lady’s hands. While her bare arms almost matched the harp in a surprising goldness of flesh, her nails, geranium petals, struck a contrast to the dress. So much refinement needed a frame, and music was a frame to the lady.

The lady was thanked with applause, and the next performers took their places.

Six gentlemen and six ladies sang old Scotch songs. It was a most interesting event, only it had no relation to music. All the ladies and the gentlemen had no voices and less ears. None was younger than fifty. They could not even keep the measure, everyone performing by himself, although the oldest gentleman, an octogenarian Scot, stamped his foot and moved his eyebrows and swung his fist to portray the melody.

Still there was a pathetic — if not beauty, then attractiveness in the scene. All those people were old. All were moving quickly down the hill of life. They scarcely hoped to see Scotland again. Yet in spite of long lives of travels, of events, of foreign countries, foreign languages, alien climates, alien songs, they kept intact a certain warmth toward their cradle, their mother — Scotland. Nothing was better, nothing was dearer, nothing could efface or erase her from their hearts. And they sang her — The Glorious Native Country— in false old voices, without tune, or measure, or rhythm, yet sang her with warmth and love.

The six ladies and six gentlemen bowed with dignity and sang encores. Then the Scotch voices from the audience asked for one song more. The chorus talked a liitle among themselves. It seemed they were not sure they could oblige their public with it. Finally they took the challenge and vocalized something utterly unlike a song. Lida felt bewildered, but the audience became noisily appreciative. Lida was naïve. She did not know that a ‘concert’ does not always mean ‘music.’ The other thing she did not know was the social standing of the singers. They were, from right to left, a banker, a lawyer, a minister, a doctor, and two owners of big estates, and some of the audience were their subordinates.

Here Mme. Manuilova came to take Lida, and with a failing heart she felt that she was afraid to sing before the audience.

Timidly she ascended the platform and stood under the cool eyes of the audience. Contrary to custom, Lida was not met with applause. As the artists were to receive nothing for their participation, Mme. Manuilova felt pricked by that lack of courtesy to the young girl, especially significant after the generous appreciation given to the others. But Linda was so afraid and shy that she had not noticed any difference in the reception. She just stood shyly and a little clumsily, slightly trembling all over . . . She felt scared. Suddenly she saw Leon.

He entered the auditorium and walked quickly to his place in the third row. He looked at Lida. He had never seen her in that evening dress, never had seen her passably well-dressed. Now she stood there — higher than anybody else — all white, all young, shy, timid, modest, beautiful. He looked, as he went, and smiled, and his eyes were luminous with admiration.

Mme. Manuilova began to play, and suddenly everything changed, all was different.

With joy, with delight, with elation, Lida began to sing. Nothing but music existed in the world.

The room grew misty, moved away, disappeared. Lida rose in the air, and slowly began to move upward. She soared over life.

She sang, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

‘What is that? . . . why that tear?’ somebody thought for her, in the background of her mind. ’I am singing,' she answered quickly — not to interrupt that joy and happiness.

There are beautiful things that we admire, and enjoy in the full presence of our critical powers. There are other beautiful things which are so congenial to our souls that we enjoy them without criticism, and suffer while enjoying. In a mysterious way they project our personality against the background of eternity and one feels how humble is one’s fate, how limited one’s powers, how finite one’s talents, and how fleeting one’s life. This was the kind of charm Lida’s singing had on Leon.

Every sound of Lida’s voice evoked immediately an answering vibration in Leon’s breast, as if it were he who was singing, — nay, as if they were singing together, Lida and he, — as if those wonderful sounds were begotten by them both, at the same time, in one mutual breath.

The storm of applause was tremendous for an audience so reticent and wellbalanced as that was. It was more than applause. It was an acceptance of Lida. Now she existed at Tientsin. Now she was known, to be recognized, remembered, talked about. Her poverty, nationality, her social standing, were forgiven.

Here Mrs. Brown — dignity in lilac silk — approached solemnly. When Lida looked at her and recognized the lady from the rummage sale she gave a low cry and trembled. But who was she to be remembered by Mrs. Brown? Mrs. Brown could no more discriminate between two customers at a rummage sale than she could between two flies that had been especially troublesome in summertime, She approached Lida grandly, but looking down into her face—youthful, pathetic, wistful, beautiful — she suddenly made a quite un-Brownesque movement. Before the unbelieving eyes of the onlookers she kissed Lida on the brow and said: —

‘Angel, you made me cry!’ And what was more unbelievable, she took off her beautiful Chinese pin which fastened the flowers to her breast — and gave it to Lida, the pin and the flowers too.

VI

With Mrs. Brown’s flowers in her hands Lida was on her way home. Leon was taking her there in a taxi.

‘You know,’ Lida said dreamily, ‘every time I have seen a car, in the evening, all lit from within — as ours is now — and two young people sitting inside — as we are now — and flowers — like those in my hands — I used to wonder how happy those two people must be. For one who treads the streets forlornly . . . alone . . . in twilight, in wind and cold — they seem a dazzling vision of happiness. Now this happens to me, and I feel nothing except sadness . . .’

‘No letters this week?’ Leon said with gently mocking compassion.

But she did not notice the mockery.

‘Almost two weeks,’ she answered, and with the grace of a bird she turned her head aside to hide her face from his view.

They sat silent. She — not looking at him. Trying to imagine and then to believe that he was Jimmy. He — with vigilant hope, on the watch for her every movement, trying to imagine and then to believe that she was his bride. Sitting close to each other, in the same car, they were moving in different directions, chasing diverse mirages, and the distance between them grew speedily, for in her thoughts she traveled further and further away, to that wondrous town in California, with the silvery name of Berkeley. Once there, she made an effort to sweep the crowds aside and to find Jimmy among them. She moved away from reality so speedily that her mental vagrancy reduced to nothing her physical presence. Leon looked for possible means to keep her with him a little longer.

‘I think your mother would like to know about the concert,’ he said at last. ‘Let us go to the hospital and tell her.’

‘In the taxi?’

‘Yes, in this taxi.’

‘But it will cost too much.’

' Lida,’ and Leon took her hand with the flowers into both of his, ‘news. You see before you a rich young gentleman. Want the details?'

‘Oh,’ Lida cried with joy. ‘Really? I have heard that some property is being restored to your family. I am proud to be with you. You are my first rich friend. All right, pay for the taxi.’

’I can do more than that. I can marry and live anywhere and give my wife almost everything . . .’

‘Oh, I should like to be your wife, if only you were Jimmy,’ she said, and they both laughed.

At the hospital Mother congratulated Lida: —

‘I am glad you sang well, my artist,’ and she kissed her. ‘Now go home and rest.’

Leon felt he could not let her go. He invited Lida to a fashionable restaurant for supper and asked Mother’s permission to take her.

‘Please, please,’ — the girl was all excitement, — ‘ may we go? I have never been in a restaurant. I have seen them in movies. Mamma, it is such a luxury . . . palms . . . music. And I am very hungry now . . .’

Mother granted her permission.

Ready to go, Lida gave a hasty look around the room, and suddenly it struck her as something unreal. A poorest hall in a poorest hospital. And she clearly saw herself, standing in the middle of that dingy room in her white dress, with flowers . . . her mother in the pitiful uniform of a nurse . . . Leon—handsome and healthy . . . and rich now. Somewhere, behind those walls, were hidden all the terrors of illness in poverty, and death in exile . . . With a startling clairvoyance she saw it all from a distance, as the many-sidedness of life . . .

‘What keeps it all together?’ she thought, and a flush of unexplicable fear shook her. She trembled.

‘What is it? What is the matter with you?’ Mother asked. Leon caught Lida by the arm.

‘She is tired.’

‘Perhaps it is better for her to go straight home . . .’

‘I will take care of Lida,’ Leon said. ‘ We will not be late. We shall sit quietly at our supper and then go home. I will take care of her.’

The fresh November air helped instantly.

‘Yes, perhaps I am too tired tonight,’ Lida said. ‘Let us have a nice supper.’

In the restaurant she was so impressed with its splendor that she spoke in whispers: —

‘Are you sure you inherited that money? Otherwise, let us go home.’

Leon sat her at a cosy small table under a palm. (Real? Artificial? And she touched it. Artificial. All dry.)

‘Yes,’ she said aloud. ‘Splendor. I wonder what they serve for supper. In a place like this . .

Suddenly she felt that Leon was looking at her intensely.

‘Why are you looking at me like that? Have I said something stupid?’

‘No. You haven’t. It is because you are charming. More, you are beautiful. Even more, unique. I love you.’

Lida’s head jerked up.

‘No,’ she cried. Then she laughed, ‘It was a joke,’ and she smiled. ‘That is what they say while waiting for supper under an artificial palm.’

‘No, Lida. I would not make a joke of that kind. This is most serious. I would be happy to marry you.'

‘Leon’ — she was rising now. ‘You must not talk to me like that. You know all about me. I am sorry ... I had better go home. You sup alone . . .’

He rose too.

‘Do not,’ he said softly. ‘Whatever I feel, I will say no more. I am sorry

‘Well—' Lida softened too. ’I shall stay with you . . . Only do not say those words any more. Do not spoil this evening for me.’

She said that word ‘spoil’ simply, which made it a harder blow. Still Leon did not show outwardly how wounded he felt.

There was no time for further love talk, for the waiter was standing at their table with the menu.

‘What will you have?’

‘I? I will eat everything that they give for supper.’ . . .

They decided to go home on foot.

When they came to their house Lida halted on the steps. The air was cold and still. She lifted her face and looked up to the sky, now bright stars. She looked at the small fleeting clouds and at the mysterious moon.

Leon took her hand.

‘Now, Lida, under this sky, let us try to find out what is love. Why really do we love?’

She did not move her eyes from the vision of the sky. And standing thus — in the halo of moonshine — with, the big shadow of the house behind, she said:—

‘Why? I do not know . . . Perhaps because it was spring then . . . We lived all together our family — Granny, Dima, Peter, our dear friend, old Professor . . . life was so full, so full . . . We sang often ... I met Jimmy . . .'

Then she eagerly turned her face to Leon: —

‘I really think I know why I fell in love. Because I was happy then. I fell in love to complete my happiness . . .'

He looked at her with tender, but still mocking eyes.

‘With me it was different,’ he said, ‘ I met you when I was tired, disgusted with life . . . We had no money in this foreign country . . . Mother trying to work and keep us men . . . Father terribly unhappy ... I felt humiliated at being helpless while young and strong. I met you when I was terribly unhappy. I fell in love with you to complete my unhappiness . . .’

They both laughed.

‘You see,’ Lida said. ‘You must not ask. There are no rules or laws. Each case has its individual logic.'

And with light steps she entered the house.

He remained in the hall while she was going upstairs, and the sounds of her presence moved away with her. The staccato sounds of high heels against the steps . . . Steps higher and higher, sounds lower and lower . . . then the sound of her door closed. Good-bye, Love! There was, there could be, no power, no force strong enough to make her understand, to make her run down the stairs and say something to alleviate her innocent cruelty.

(To be continued)

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