THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL
PART 2
CHAPTER II
I
perceive, with joy, my most valued friend, that the cloud of your displeasure
has passed away; the light of your countenance blesses me once more, and you
desire the continuation of my story: therefore, without more ado, you shall
have it.
I think
the day I last mentioned was a certain Sunday, the latest in the October of
1827. On the following Tuesday I was out with my dog and gun, in pursuit
of such game as I could find within the territory of Linden-Car; but finding
none at all, I turned my arms against the hawks and carrion crows, whose
depredations, as I suspected, had deprived me of better prey. To this end
I left the more frequented regions, the wooded valleys, the corn-fields, and
the meadow-lands, and proceeded to mount the steep acclivity of Wildfell, the
wildest and the loftiest eminence in our neighbourhood, where, as you ascend,
the hedges, as well as the trees, become scanty and stunted, the former, at
length, giving place to rough stone fences, partly greened over with ivy and
moss, the latter to larches and Scotch fir-trees, or isolated
blackthorns. The fields, being rough and stony, and wholly unfit for the
plough, were mostly devoted to the pasturing of sheep and cattle; the soil was
thin and poor: bits of grey rock here and there peeped out from the grassy
hillocks; bilberry-plants and heather—relics of more savage wildness—grew under
the walls; and in many of the enclosures, ragweeds and rushes usurped supremacy
over the scanty herbage; but these were not my property.
Near the
top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car, stood Wildfell Hall, a
superannuated mansion of the Elizabethan era, built of dark grey stone,
venerable and picturesque to look at, but doubtless, cold and gloomy enough to
inhabit, with its thick stone mullions and little latticed panes, its
time-eaten air-holes, and its too lonely, too unsheltered situation,—only
shielded from the war of wind and weather by a group of Scotch firs, themselves
half blighted with storms, and looking as stern and gloomy as the Hall
itself. Behind it lay a few desolate fields, and then the brown
heath-clad summit of the hill; before it (enclosed by stone walls, and entered
by an iron gate, with large balls of grey granite—similar to those which
decorated the roof and gables—surmounting the gate-posts) was a garden,—once
stocked with such hard plants and flowers as could best brook the soil and
climate, and such trees and shrubs as could best endure the gardener’s
torturing shears, and most readily assume the shapes he chose to give
them,—now, having been left so many years untilled and untrimmed, abandoned to
the weeds and the grass, to the frost and the wind, the rain and the drought,
it presented a very singular appearance indeed. The close green walls of
privet, that had bordered the principal walk, were two-thirds withered away,
and the rest grown beyond all reasonable bounds; the old boxwood swan, that sat
beside the scraper, had lost its neck and half its body: the castellated towers
of laurel in the middle of the garden, the gigantic warrior that stood on one
side of the gateway, and the lion that guarded the other, were sprouted into
such fantastic shapes as resembled nothing either in heaven or earth, or in the
waters under the earth; but, to my young imagination, they presented all of
them a goblinish appearance, that harmonised well with the ghostly legions and
dark traditions our old nurse had told us respecting the haunted hall and its
departed occupants.
I had
succeeded in killing a hawk and two crows when I came within sight of the
mansion; and then, relinquishing further depredations, I sauntered on, to have
a look at the old place, and see what changes had been wrought in it by its new
inhabitant. I did not like to go quite to the front and stare in at the
gate; but I paused beside the garden wall, and looked, and saw no change—except
in one wing, where the broken windows and dilapidated roof had evidently been
repaired, and where a thin wreath of smoke was curling up from the stack of
chimneys.
While I
thus stood, leaning on my gun, and looking up at the dark gables, sunk in an
idle reverie, weaving a tissue of wayward fancies, in which old associations
and the fair young hermit, now within those walls, bore a nearly equal part, I
heard a slight rustling and scrambling just within the garden; and, glancing in
the direction whence the sound proceeded, I beheld a tiny hand elevated above
the wall: it clung to the topmost stone, and then another little hand was
raised to take a firmer hold, and then appeared a small white forehead,
surmounted with wreaths of light brown hair, with a pair of deep blue eyes
beneath, and the upper portion of a diminutive ivory nose.
The eyes
did not notice me, but sparkled with glee on beholding Sancho, my beautiful
black and white setter, that was coursing about the field with its muzzle to
the ground. The little creature raised its face and called aloud to the
dog. The good-natured animal paused, looked up, and wagged his tail, but
made no further advances. The child (a little boy, apparently about five
years old) scrambled up to the top of the wall, and called again and again; but
finding this of no avail, apparently made up his mind, like Mahomet, to go to
the mountain, since the mountain would not come to him, and attempted to get
over; but a crabbed old cherry-tree, that grew hard by, caught him by the frock
in one of its crooked scraggy arms that stretched over the wall. In
attempting to disengage himself his foot slipped, and down he tumbled—but not
to the earth;—the tree still kept him suspended. There was a silent
struggle, and then a piercing shriek;—but, in an instant, I had dropped my gun
on the grass, and caught the little fellow in my arms.
I wiped
his eyes with his frock, told him he was all right and called Sancho to pacify
him. He was just putting little hand on the dog’s neck and beginning to
smile through his tears, when I heard behind me a click of the iron gate, and a
rustle of female garments, and lo! Mrs. Graham darted upon me—her neck
uncovered, her black locks streaming in the wind.
‘Give me
the child!’ she said, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper, but with a tone
of startling vehemence, and, seizing the boy, she snatched him from me, as if
some dire contamination were in my touch, and then stood with one hand firmly
clasping his, the other on his shoulder, fixing upon me her large, luminous
dark eyes—pale, breathless, quivering with agitation.
‘I was not
harming the child, madam,’ said I, scarce knowing whether to be most astonished
or displeased; ‘he was tumbling off the wall there; and I was so fortunate as
to catch him, while he hung suspended headlong from that tree, and prevent I
know not what catastrophe.’
‘I beg
your pardon, sir,’ stammered she;—suddenly calming down,—the light of reason
seeming to break upon her beclouded spirit, and a faint blush mantling on her
cheek—‘I did not know you;—and I thought—’
She
stooped to kiss the child, and fondly clasped her arm round his neck.
‘You
thought I was going to kidnap your son, I suppose?’
She
stroked his head with a half-embarrassed laugh, and replied,—‘I did not know he
had attempted to climb the wall.—I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Markham,
I believe?’ she added, somewhat abruptly.
I bowed, but
ventured to ask how she knew me.
‘Your
sister called here, a few days ago, with Mrs. Markham.’
‘Is the
resemblance so strong then?’ I asked, in some surprise, and not so greatly
flattered at the idea as I ought to have been.
‘There is
a likeness about the eyes and complexion I think,’ replied she, somewhat
dubiously surveying my face;—‘and I think I saw you at church on Sunday.’
I
smiled.—There was something either in that smile or the recollections it
awakened that was particularly displeasing to her, for she suddenly assumed
again that proud, chilly look that had so unspeakably roused my aversion at
church—a look of repellent scorn, so easily assumed, and so entirely without
the least distortion of a single feature, that, while there, it seemed like the
natural expression of the face, and was the more provoking to me, because I
could not think it affected.
‘Good-morning,
Mr. Markham,’ said she; and without another word or glance, she withdrew, with
her child, into the garden; and I returned home, angry and dissatisfied—I could
scarcely tell you why, and therefore will not attempt it.
I only
stayed to put away my gun and powder-horn, and give some requisite directions
to one of the farming-men, and then repaired to the vicarage, to solace my
spirit and soothe my ruffled temper with the company and conversation of Eliza
Millward.
I found
her, as usual, busy with some piece of soft embroidery (the mania for Berlin
wools had not yet commenced), while her sister was seated at the
chimney-corner, with the cat on her knee, mending a heap of stockings.
‘Mary—Mary!
put them away!’ Eliza was hastily saying, just as I entered the room.
‘Not I,
indeed!’ was the phlegmatic reply; and my appearance prevented further
discussion.
‘You’re so
unfortunate, Mr. Markham!’ observed the younger sister, with one of her arch,
sidelong glances. ‘Papa’s just gone out into the parish, and not likely
to be back for an hour!’
‘Never
mind; I can manage to spend a few minutes with his daughters, if they’ll allow
me,’ said I, bringing a chair to the fire, and seating myself therein, without
waiting to be asked.
‘Well, if
you’ll be very good and amusing, we shall not object.’
‘Let your
permission be unconditional, pray; for I came not to give pleasure, but to seek
it,’ I answered.
However, I
thought it but reasonable to make some slight exertion to render my company
agreeable; and what little effort I made, was apparently pretty successful, for
Miss Eliza was never in a better humour. We seemed, indeed, to be
mutually pleased with each other, and managed to maintain between us a cheerful
and animated though not very profound conversation. It was little better
than a tête-à-tête, for Miss Millward never opened her lips, except
occasionally to correct some random assertion or exaggerated expression of her
sister’s, and once to ask her to pick up the ball of cotton that had rolled
under the table. I did this myself, however, as in duty bound.
‘Thank
you, Mr. Markham,’ said she, as I presented it to her. ‘I would have
picked it up myself; only I did not want to disturb the cat.’
‘Mary,
dear, that won’t excuse you in Mr. Markham’s eyes,’ said Eliza; ‘he hates cats,
I daresay, as cordially as he does old maids—like all other gentlemen.
Don’t you, Mr. Markham?’
‘I believe
it is natural for our unamiable sex to dislike the creatures,’ replied I; ‘for
you ladies lavish so many caresses upon them.’
‘Bless
them—little darlings!’ cried she, in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, turning
round and overwhelming her sister’s pet with a shower of kisses.
‘Don’t,
Eliza!’ said Miss Millward, somewhat gruffly, as she impatiently pushed her
away.
But it was
time for me to be going: make what haste I would, I should still be too late
for tea; and my mother was the soul of order and punctuality.
My fair
friend was evidently unwilling to bid me adieu. I tenderly squeezed her
little hand at parting; and she repaid me with one of her softest smiles and
most bewitching glances. I went home very happy, with a heart brimful of
complacency for myself, and overflowing with love for Eliza.
CHAPTER III
Two days
after, Mrs. Graham called at Linden-Car, contrary to the expectation of Rose,
who entertained an idea that the mysterious occupant of Wildfell Hall would
wholly disregard the common observances of civilized life,—in which opinion she
was supported by the Wilsons, who testified that neither their call nor the
Millwards’ had been returned as yet. Now, however, the cause of that
omission was explained, though not entirely to the satisfaction of Rose.
Mrs. Graham had brought her child with her, and on my mother’s expressing
surprise that he could walk so far, she replied,—‘It is a long walk for him;
but I must have either taken him with me, or relinquished the visit altogether;
for I never leave him alone; and I think, Mrs. Markham, I must beg you to make
my excuses to the Millwards and Mrs. Wilson, when you see them, as I fear I
cannot do myself the pleasure of calling upon them till my little Arthur is
able to accompany me.’
‘But you
have a servant,’ said Rose; ‘could you not leave him with her?’
‘She has
her own occupations to attend to; and besides, she is too old to run after a
child, and he is too mercurial to be tied to an elderly woman.’
‘But you
left him to come to church.’
‘Yes,
once; but I would not have left him for any other purpose; and I think, in
future, I must contrive to bring him with me, or stay at home.’
‘Is he so
mischievous?’ asked my mother, considerably shocked.
‘No,’
replied the lady, sadly smiling, as she stroked the wavy locks of her son, who
was seated on a low stool at her feet; ‘but he is my only treasure, and I am
his only friend: so we don’t like to be separated.’
‘But, my
dear, I call that doting,’ said my plain-spoken parent. ‘You should try
to suppress such foolish fondness, as well to save your son from ruin as
yourself from ridicule.’
‘Ruin!
Mrs. Markham!’
‘Yes; it
is spoiling the child. Even at his age, he ought not to be always tied to
his mother’s apron-string; he should learn to be ashamed of it.’
‘Mrs.
Markham, I beg you will not say such things, in his presence, at least. I
trust my son will never be ashamed to love his mother!’ said Mrs. Graham, with
a serious energy that startled the company.
My mother
attempted to appease her by an explanation; but she seemed to think enough had
been said on the subject, and abruptly turned the conversation.
‘Just as I
thought,’ said I to myself: ‘the lady’s temper is none of the mildest,
notwithstanding her sweet, pale face and lofty brow, where thought and suffering
seem equally to have stamped their impress.’
All this
time I was seated at a table on the other side of the room, apparently immersed
in the perusal of a volume of the Farmer’s Magazine, which I happened to
have been reading at the moment of our visitor’s arrival; and, not choosing to
be over civil, I had merely bowed as she entered, and continued my occupation
as before.
In a
little while, however, I was sensible that some one was approaching me, with a
light, but slow and hesitating tread. It was little Arthur, irresistibly
attracted by my dog Sancho, that was lying at my feet. On looking up I
beheld him standing about two yards off, with his clear blue eyes wistfully
gazing on the dog, transfixed to the spot, not by fear of the animal, but by a
timid disinclination to approach its master. A little encouragement,
however, induced him to come forward. The child, though shy, was not
sullen. In a minute he was kneeling on the carpet, with his arms round
Sancho’s neck, and, in a minute or two more, the little fellow was seated on my
knee, surveying with eager interest the various specimens of horses, cattle,
pigs, and model farms portrayed in the volume before me. I glanced at his
mother now and then to see how she relished the new-sprung intimacy; and I saw,
by the unquiet aspect of her eye, that for some reason or other she was uneasy
at the child’s position.
‘Arthur,’
said she, at length, ‘come here. You are troublesome to Mr. Markham: he
wishes to read.’
‘By no
means, Mrs. Graham; pray let him stay. I am as much amused as he is,’
pleaded I. But still, with hand and eye, she silently called him to her
side.
‘No,
mamma,’ said the child; ‘let me look at these pictures first; and then I’ll
come, and tell you all about them.’
‘We are
going to have a small party on Monday, the fifth of November,’ said my mother;
‘and I hope you will not refuse to make one, Mrs. Graham. You can bring
your little boy with you, you know—I daresay we shall be able to amuse him;—and
then you can make your own apologies to the Millwards and Wilsons—they will all
be here, I expect.’
‘Thank
you, I never go to parties.’
‘Oh! but
this will be quite a family concern—early hours, and nobody here but ourselves,
and just the Millwards and Wilsons, most of whom you already know, and Mr.
Lawrence, your landlord, with whom you ought to make acquaintance.’
‘I do know
something of him—but you must excuse me this time; for the evenings, now, are
dark and damp, and Arthur, I fear, is too delicate to risk exposure to their
influence with impunity. We must defer the enjoyment of your hospitality
till the return of longer days and warmer nights.’
Rose, now,
at a hint from my mother, produced a decanter of wine, with accompaniments of
glasses and cake, from the cupboard and the oak sideboard, and the refreshment
was duly presented to the guests. They both partook of the cake, but
obstinately refused the wine, in spite of their hostess’s hospitable attempts
to force it upon them. Arthur, especially shrank from the ruby nectar as
if in terror and disgust, and was ready to cry when urged to take it.
‘Never
mind, Arthur,’ said his mamma; ‘Mrs. Markham thinks it will do you good, as you
were tired with your walk; but she will not oblige you to take it!—I daresay
you will do very well without. He detests the very sight of wine,’ she
added, ‘and the smell of it almost makes him sick. I have been accustomed
to make him swallow a little wine or weak spirits-and-water, by way of
medicine, when he was sick, and, in fact, I have done what I could to make him
hate them.’
Everybody
laughed, except the young widow and her son.
‘Well,
Mrs. Graham,’ said my mother, wiping the tears of merriment from her bright
blue eyes—‘well, you surprise me! I really gave you credit for having
more sense.—The poor child will be the veriest milksop that ever was
sopped! Only think what a man you will make of him, if you persist in—’
‘I think
it a very excellent plan,’ interrupted Mrs. Graham, with imperturbable
gravity. ‘By that means I hope to save him from one degrading vice at
least. I wish I could render the incentives to every other equally
innoxious in his case.’
‘But by
such means,’ said I, ‘you will never render him virtuous.—What is it that
constitutes virtue, Mrs. Graham? Is it the circumstance of being able and
willing to resist temptation; or that of having no temptations to resist?—Is he
a strong man that overcomes great obstacles and performs surprising
achievements, though by dint of great muscular exertion, and at the risk of
some subsequent fatigue, or he that sits in his chair all day, with nothing to
do more laborious than stirring the fire, and carrying his food to his
mouth? If you would have your son to walk honourably through the world,
you must not attempt to clear the stones from his path, but teach him to walk
firmly over them—not insist upon leading him by the hand, but let him learn to
go alone.’
‘I will
lead him by the hand, Mr. Markham, till he has strength to go alone; and I will
clear as many stones from his path as I can, and teach him to avoid the rest—or
walk firmly over them, as you say;—for when I have done my utmost, in the way
of clearance, there will still be plenty left to exercise all the agility,
steadiness, and circumspection he will ever have.—It is all very well to talk
about noble resistance, and trials of virtue; but for fifty—or five hundred men
that have yielded to temptation, show me one that has had virtue to
resist. And why should I take it for granted that my son will be one in a
thousand?—and not rather prepare for the worst, and suppose he will be like
his—like the rest of mankind, unless I take care to prevent it?’
‘You are
very complimentary to us all,’ I observed.
‘I know
nothing about you—I speak of those I do know—and when I see the whole race of
mankind (with a few rare exceptions) stumbling and blundering along the path of
life, sinking into every pitfall, and breaking their shins over every
impediment that lies in their way, shall I not use all the means in my power to
insure for him a smoother and a safer passage?’
‘Yes, but
the surest means will be to endeavour to fortify him against temptation, not to
remove it out of his way.’
‘I will do
both, Mr. Markham. God knows he will have temptations enough to assail
him, both from within and without, when I have done all I can to render vice as
uninviting to him, as it is abominable in its own nature—I myself have had,
indeed, but few incentives to what the world calls vice, but yet I have
experienced temptations and trials of another kind, that have required, on many
occasions, more watchfulness and firmness to resist than I have hitherto been
able to muster against them. And this, I believe, is what most others
would acknowledge who are accustomed to reflection, and wishful to strive
against their natural corruptions.’
‘Yes,’
said my mother, but half apprehending her drift; ‘but you would not judge of a
boy by yourself—and, my dear Mrs. Graham, let me warn you in good time against
the error—the fatal error, I may call it—of taking that boy’s education upon
yourself. Because you are clever in some things and well informed, you
may fancy yourself equal to the task; but indeed you are not; and if you
persist in the attempt, believe me you will bitterly repent it when the
mischief is done.’
‘I am to
send him to school, I suppose, to learn to despise his mother’s authority and
affection!’ said the lady, with rather a bitter smile.
‘Oh,
no!—But if you would have a boy to despise his mother, let her keep him at home,
and spend her life in petting him up, and slaving to indulge his follies and
caprices.’
‘I
perfectly agree with you, Mrs. Markham; but nothing can be further from my
principles and practice than such criminal weakness as that.’
‘Well, but
you will treat him like a girl—you’ll spoil his spirit, and make a mere Miss
Nancy of him—you will, indeed, Mrs. Graham, whatever you may think. But
I’ll get Mr. Millward to talk to you about it:—he’ll tell you the
consequences;—he’ll set it before you as plain as the day;—and tell you what
you ought to do, and all about it;—and, I don’t doubt, he’ll be able to
convince you in a minute.’
‘No
occasion to trouble the vicar,’ said Mrs. Graham, glancing at me—I suppose I
was smiling at my mother’s unbounded confidence in that worthy gentleman—‘Mr.
Markham here thinks his powers of conviction at least equal to Mr.
Millward’s. If I hear not him, neither should I be convinced though one
rose from the dead, he would tell you. Well, Mr. Markham, you that
maintain that a boy should not be shielded from evil, but sent out to battle
against it, alone and unassisted—not taught to avoid the snares of life, but
boldly to rush into them, or over them, as he may—to seek danger, rather than
shun it, and feed his virtue by temptation,—would you—?’
‘I beg
your pardon, Mrs. Graham—but you get on too fast. I have not yet said
that a boy should be taught to rush into the snares of life,—or even wilfully
to seek temptation for the sake of exercising his virtue by overcoming it;—I
only say that it is better to arm and strengthen your hero, than to disarm and
enfeeble the foe;—and if you were to rear an oak sapling in a hothouse, tending
it carefully night and day, and shielding it from every breath of wind, you
could not expect it to become a hardy tree, like that which has grown up on the
mountain-side, exposed to all the action of the elements, and not even
sheltered from the shock of the tempest.’
‘Granted;—but
would you use the same argument with regard to a girl?’
‘Certainly
not.’
‘No; you
would have her to be tenderly and delicately nurtured, like a hot-house
plant—taught to cling to others for direction and support, and guarded, as much
as possible, from the very knowledge of evil. But will you be so good as
to inform me why you make this distinction? Is it that you think she has
no virtue?’
‘Assuredly
not.’
‘Well, but
you affirm that virtue is only elicited by temptation;—and you think that a
woman cannot be too little exposed to temptation, or too little acquainted with
vice, or anything connected therewith. It must be either that you think
she is essentially so vicious, or so feeble-minded, that she cannot withstand
temptation,—and though she may be pure and innocent as long as she is kept in
ignorance and restraint, yet, being destitute of real virtue, to teach her how
to sin is at once to make her a sinner, and the greater her knowledge, the
wider her liberty, the deeper will be her depravity,—whereas, in the nobler
sex, there is a natural tendency to goodness, guarded by a superior fortitude,
which, the more it is exercised by trials and dangers, is only the further
developed—’
‘Heaven
forbid that I should think so!’ I interrupted her at last.
‘Well,
then, it must be that you think they are both weak and prone to err, and the
slightest error, the merest shadow of pollution, will ruin the one, while the
character of the other will be strengthened and embellished—his education
properly finished by a little practical acquaintance with forbidden
things. Such experience, to him (to use a trite simile), will be like the
storm to the oak, which, though it may scatter the leaves, and snap the smaller
branches, serves but to rivet the roots, and to harden and condense the fibres
of the tree. You would have us encourage our sons to prove all things by
their own experience, while our daughters must not even profit by the
experience of others. Now I would have both so to benefit by the
experience of others, and the precepts of a higher authority, that they should
know beforehand to refuse the evil and choose the good, and require no
experimental proofs to teach them the evil of transgression. I would not
send a poor girl into the world, unarmed against her foes, and ignorant of the
snares that beset her path; nor would I watch and guard her, till, deprived of
self-respect and self-reliance, she lost the power or the will to watch and
guard herself;—and as for my son—if I thought he would grow up to be what you
call a man of the world—one that has “seen life,” and glories in his experience,
even though he should so far profit by it as to sober down, at length, into a
useful and respected member of society—I would rather that he died
to-morrow!—rather a thousand times!’ she earnestly repeated, pressing her
darling to her side and kissing his forehead with intense affection. He
had already left his new companion, and been standing for some time beside his
mother’s knee, looking up into her face, and listening in silent wonder to her
incomprehensible discourse.
‘Well! you
ladies must always have the last word, I suppose,’ said I, observing her rise,
and begin to take leave of my mother.
‘You may
have as many words as you please,—only I can’t stay to hear them.’
‘No; that
is the way: you hear just as much of an argument as you please; and the rest
may be spoken to the wind.’
‘If you
are anxious to say anything more on the subject,’ replied she, as she shook
hands with Rose, ‘you must bring your sister to see me some fine day, and I’ll
listen, as patiently as you could wish, to whatever you please to say. I
would rather be lectured by you than the vicar, because I should have less
remorse in telling you, at the end of the discourse, that I preserve my own
opinion precisely the same as at the beginning—as would be the case, I am
persuaded, with regard to either logician.’
‘Yes, of
course,’ replied I, determined to be as provoking as herself; ‘for when a lady
does consent to listen to an argument against her own opinions, she is always
predetermined to withstand it—to listen only with her bodily ears, keeping the
mental organs resolutely closed against the strongest reasoning.’
‘Good-morning,
Mr. Markham,’ said my fair antagonist, with a pitying smile; and deigning no
further rejoinder, she slightly bowed, and was about to withdraw; but her son,
with childish impertinence, arrested her by exclaiming,—‘Mamma, you have not
shaken hands with Mr. Markham!’
She
laughingly turned round and held out her hand. I gave it a spiteful
squeeze, for I was annoyed at the continual injustice she had done me from the
very dawn of our acquaintance. Without knowing anything about my real
disposition and principles, she was evidently prejudiced against me, and seemed
bent upon showing me that her opinions respecting me, on every particular, fell
far below those I entertained of myself. I was naturally touchy, or it
would not have vexed me so much. Perhaps, too, I was a little bit spoiled
by my mother and sister, and some other ladies of my acquaintance;—and yet I
was by no means a fop—of that I am fully convinced, whether you are or not.
To be continued
