Kitabı oku: «Uncle's Dream; and The Permanent Husband», sayfa 12
Both the question and the whole idea of calling after the man were absurdly foolish, and Velchaninoff knew it the moment he had said the words. The man had turned round, stopped for an instant, lost his head, smiled – half made up his mind to say something, – had waited half a minute in painful indecision, then twisted suddenly round again, and “bolted” without a word. Velchaninoff gazed after him in amazement. “What if it be I that haunt him, and not he me, after all?” he thought. However, Velchaninoff ate up his dinner, and then drove off to pounce upon the town councillor at the latter's house, if he could.
The councillor was not in; and he was informed that he would scarcely be at home before three or four in the morning, because he had gone to a “name's-day party.”
Velchaninoff felt that this was too bad! In his rage he determined to follow and hunt the fellow up at the party: he actually took a droshky, and started off with that wild idea; but luckily he thought better of it on the way, got out of the vehicle and walked away towards the “Great Theatre,” near which he lived. He felt that he must have motion; also he must absolutely sleep well this coming night: in order to sleep he must be tired; so he walked all the way home – a fairly long walk, and arrived there about half-past ten, as tired as he could wish.
His lodging, which he had taken last March, and had abused ever since, apologising to himself for living “in such a hole,” and at the same time excusing himself for the fact by the reflection that it was only for a while, and that he had dropped quite accidentally into St. Petersburg – thanks to that cursed lawsuit! – his lodging, I say, was by no means so bad as he made it out to be!
The entrance certainly was a little dark, and dirty-looking, being just under the arch of the gateway. But he had two fine large light rooms on the second floor, separated by the entrance hall: one of these rooms overlooked the yard and the other the street. Leading out of the former of these was a smaller room, meant to be used as a bedroom; but Velchaninoff had filled it with a disordered array of books and papers, and preferred to sleep in one of the large rooms, the one overlooking the street, to wit.
His bed was made for him, every day, upon the large divan. The rooms were full of good furniture, and some valuable ornaments and pictures were scattered about, but the whole place was in dreadful disorder; the fact being that at this time Velchaninoff was without a regular servant. His one domestic had gone away to stay with her friends in the country; he thought of taking a man, but decided that it was not worth while for a short time; besides he hated flunkeys, and ended by making arrangements with his dvornik's sister Martha, who was to come up every morning and “do out” his rooms, he leaving the key with her as he went out each day. Martha did absolutely nothing towards tidying the place and robbed him besides, but he didn't care, he liked to be alone in the house. But solitude is all very well within certain limits, and Velchaninoff found that his nerves could not stand all this sort of thing at certain bilious moments; and it so fell out that he began to loathe his room more and more every time he entered it.
However, on this particular evening he hardly gave himself time to undress; he threw himself on his bed, and determined that nothing should make him think of anything, and that he would fall asleep at once.
And, strangely enough, his head had hardly touched the pillow before he actually was asleep; and this was the first time for a month past that such a thing had occurred.
He awoke at about two, considerably agitated; he had dreamed certain very strange dreams, reminding him of the incoherent wanderings of fever.
The subject seemed to be some crime which he had committed and concealed, but of which he was accused by a continuous flow of people who swarmed into his rooms for the purpose. The crowd which had already collected within was enormous, and yet they continued to pour in in such numbers that the door was never shut for an instant.
But his whole interest seemed to centre in one strange looking individual, – a man who seemed to have once been very closely and intimately connected with him, but who had died long ago and now reappeared for some reason or other.
The most tormenting part of the matter was that Velchaninoff could not recollect who this man was, – he could not remember his name, – though he recollected the fact that he had once dearly loved him. All the rest of the people swarming into the room seemed to be waiting for the final word of this man, – either the condemnation or the justification of Velchaninoff was to be pronounced by him, – and everyone was impatiently waiting to hear him speak.
But he sat motionless at the table, and would not open his lips to say a word of any sort.
The uproar continued, the general annoyance increased, and, suddenly, Velchaninoff himself strode up to the man in a fury, and smote him because he would not speak. Velchaninoff felt the strangest satisfaction in having thus smitten him; his heart seemed to freeze in horror for what he had done, and in acute suffering for the crime involved in his action, – but in that very sensation of freezing at the heart lay the sense of satisfaction which he felt.
Exasperated more and more, he struck the man a second and a third time; and then – in a sort of intoxication of fury and terror, which amounted to actual insanity, and yet bore within it a germ of delightful satisfaction, he ceased to count his blows, and rained them in without ceasing.
He felt he must destroy, annihilate, demolish all this.
Suddenly something strange happened; everyone present had given a dreadful cry and turned expectantly towards the door, while at the same moment there came three terrific peals of the hall-bell, so violent that it appeared someone was anxious to pull the bell-handle out.
Velchaninoff awoke, started up in a second, and made for the door; he was persuaded that the ring at the bell had been no dream or illusion, but that someone had actually rung, and was at that moment standing at the front door.
“It would be too unnatural if such a clear and unmistakable ring should turn out to be nothing but an item of a dream!” he thought. But, to his surprise, it proved that such was nevertheless the actual state of the case! He opened the door and went out on to the landing; he looked downstairs and about him, but there was not a soul to be seen. The bell hung motionless. Surprised, but pleased, he returned into his room. He lit a candle, and suddenly remembered that he had left the door closed, but not locked and chained. He had often returned home before this evening and forgotten to lock the door behind him, without attaching any special significance to the fact; his maid had often respectfully protested against such neglect while with him. He now returned to the entrance hall to make the door fast; before doing so he opened it, however, and had one more look about the stairs. He then shut the door and fastened the chain and hook, but did not take the trouble to turn the key in the lock.
Some clock struck half-past two at this moment, so that he had had three hours' sleep – more or less.
His dream had agitated him to such an extent that he felt unwilling to lie down again at once; he decided to walk up and down the room two or three times first, just long enough to smoke a cigar. Having half-dressed himself, he went to the window, drew the heavy curtains aside and pulled up one of the blinds, it was almost full daylight. These light summer nights of St. Petersburg always had a bad effect upon his nerves, and of late they had added to the causes of his sleeplessness, so that a few weeks since he had invested in these thick curtains, which completely shut out the light when drawn close.
Having thus let in the sunshine, quite oblivious of the lighted candle on the table, he commenced to walk up and down the room. Still feeling the burden of his dream upon him, its impression was even now at work upon his mind, he still felt a painfully guilty sensation about him, caused by the fact that he had allowed himself to raise his hand against “that man” and strike him. “But, my dear sir!” he argued with himself, “it was not a man at all! the whole thing was a dream! what's the use of worrying yourself for nothing?”
Velchaninoff now became obstinately convinced that he was a sick man, and that to his sickly state of body was to be attributed all his perturbation of mind. He was an invalid.
It had always been a weak point with Velchaninoff that he hated to think of himself as growing old or infirm; and yet in his moments of anger he loved to exaggerate one or the other in order to worry himself.
“It's old age,” he now muttered to himself, as he paced up and down the room. “I'm becoming an old fogey – that's the fact of the matter! I'm losing my memory – see ghosts, and have dreams, and hear bells ring – curse it all! I know these dreams of old, they always herald fever with me. I dare swear that the whole business of this man with the crape hatband has been a dream too! I was perfectly right yesterday, he isn't haunting me the least bit in the world; it is I that am haunting him! I've invented a pretty little ghost-story about him and then climb under the table in terror at my own creation! Why do I call him a little cad, too? he may be a most respectable individual for all I know! His face is a disagreeable one, certainly, though there is nothing hideous about it! He dresses just like anyone else. I don't know – there's something about his look – There I go again! What the devil have I got to do with his look? what a fool I am – just as though I could not live without the dirty little wretch – curse him!”
Among other thoughts connected with this haunting crape-man was one which puzzled Velchaninoff immensely; he felt convinced that at some time or other he had known the man, and known him very intimately; and that now the latter, when meeting him, always laughed at him because he was aware of some great secret of his former life, or because he was amused to see Velchaninoff's present humiliating condition of poverty.
Mechanically our hero approached the window in order to get a breath of fresh air – when he was suddenly seized with a violent fit of shuddering; – a feeling came over him that something unusual and unheard-of was happening before his very eyes.
He had not had time to open the window when something he saw caused him to slip behind the corner of the curtain, and hide himself.
The man in the crape hatband was standing on the opposite side of the street.
He was standing with his face turned directly towards Velchaninoff's window, but evidently unaware of the latter's presence there, and was carefully examining the house, and apparently considering some question connected with it.
He seemed to come to a decision after a moment's thought, and raised his finger to his forehead; then he looked quietly about him, and ran swiftly across the road on tiptoe. He reached the gate, and entered it; this gate was often left open on summer nights until two or three in the morning.
“He's coming to me,” muttered Velchaninoff, and with equal caution he left the window, and ran to the front door; arrived in the hall, he stood in breathless expectation before the door, and placed his trembling hand carefully upon the hook which he had fastened a few minutes since, and stood listening for the tread of the expected footfall on the stairs. His heart was beating so loud that he was afraid he might miss the sound of the cautious steps approaching.
He could understand nothing of what was happening, but it seemed clear that his dream was about to be realised.
Velchaninoff was naturally brave. He loved risk for its own sake, and very often ran into useless dangers, with no one by to see, to please himself. But this was different, somehow; he was not himself, and yet he was as brave as ever, but with something added. He made out every movement of the stranger from behind his own door.
“Ah! – there he comes! – he's on the steps now! – here he comes! – he's up now! – now he's looking down stairs and all about, and crouching down! Aha! there's his hand on the door-handle – he's trying it! – he thought he would find it unlocked! – then he must know that I do leave it unlocked sometimes! – He's trying it again! – I suppose he thinks the hook may slip! – he doesn't care to go away without doing anything!”
So ran Velchaninoff's thoughts, and so indeed followed the man's actions. There was no doubt about it, someone was certainly standing outside and trying the door-handle, carefully and cautiously pulling at the door itself, and, in fact, endeavouring to effect an entrance; equally sure was it that the person so doing must have his own object in trying to sneak into another man's house at dead of night. But Velchaninoff's plan of action was laid, and he awaited the proper moment; he was anxious to seize a good opportunity – slip the hook and chain – open the door wide, suddenly, and stand face to face with this bugbear, and then ask him what the deuce he wanted there.
No sooner devised than executed.
Awaiting the proper moment, Velchaninoff suddenly slipped the hook, pushed the door wide, and almost tumbled over the man with the crape hatband!
CHAPTER III
The crape-man stood rooted to the spot dumb with astonishment.
Both men stood opposite one another on the landing, and both stared in each other's eyes, silent and motionless.
So passed a few moments, and suddenly, like a flash of lightning, Velchaninoff became aware of the identity of his guest.
At the same moment the latter seemed to guess that Velchaninoff had recognised him. Velchaninoff could see it in his eyes. In one instant the visitor's whole face was all ablaze with its very sweetest of smiles.
“Surely I have the pleasure of speaking to Aleksey Ivanovitch?” he asked, in the most dulcet of voices, comically inappropriate to the circumstances of the case.
“Surely you are Pavel Pavlovitch Trusotsky?” asked Velchaninoff, in return, after a pause, and with an expression of much perplexity.
“I had the pleasure of your acquaintance ten years ago at T – , and, if I may remind you of the fact, we were almost intimate friends.”
“Quite so – oh yes! but it is now three o'clock in the morning, and you have been trying my lock for the last ten minutes.”
“Three o'clock!” cried the visitor, looking at his watch with an air of melancholy surprise.
“Why, so it is! dear me – three o'clock! forgive me, Aleksey Ivanovitch! I ought to have found it out before thinking of paying you a visit. I will do myself the honour of calling to explain another day, and now I – .”
“Oh no; – no, no! If you are to explain at all let's have it at once; this moment!” interrupted Velchaninoff warmly. “Kindly step in here, into the room! You must have meant to come in, you know; you didn't come here at night, like this, simply for the pleasure of trying my lock?”
He felt excited, and at the same time was conscious of a sort of timidity; he could not collect his thoughts. He was ashamed of himself for it. There was no danger, no mystery about the business, nothing but the silly figure of Pavel Pavlovitch.
And yet he could not feel satisfied that there was nothing particular in it; he felt afraid of something to come, he knew not what or when.
However, he made the man enter, seated him in a chair, and himself sat down on the side of his bed, a yard or so off, and rested his elbows on his knees while he quietly waited for the other to begin. He felt irritated; he stared at his visitor and let his thoughts run. Strangely enough, the other never opened his mouth; he seemed to be entirely oblivious of the fact that it was his duty to speak. Nay, he was even looking enquiringly at Velchaninoff as though quite expecting that the latter would speak to him!
Perhaps he felt a little uncomfortable at first, somewhat as a mouse must feel when he finds himself unexpectedly in the trap.
Velchaninoff very soon lost his patience.
“Well?” he cried, “you are not a fantasy or a dream or anything of that kind, are you? You aren't a corpse, are you? Come, my friend, this is not a game or play. I want your explanation, please!”
The visitor fidgeted about a little, smiled, and began to speak cautiously.
“So far as I can see,” he said, “the time of night of my visit is what surprises you, and that I should have come as I did; in fact, when I remember the past, and our intimacy, and all that, I am astonished myself; but the fact is, I did not mean to come in at all, and if I did so it was purely an accident.”
“An accident! Why, I saw you creeping across the road on tip-toes!”
“You saw me? Indeed! Come, then you know as much or more about the matter than I do; but I see I am annoying you. This is how it was: I've been in town three weeks or so on business. I am Pavel Pavlovitch Trusotsky, you recognized me yourself, my business in town is to effect an exchange of departments. I am trying for a situation in another place – one with a large increase of salary; but all this is beside the point; the fact of the matter is, I believe I have been delaying my business on purpose. I believe if everything were settled at this moment I should still be dawdling in this St. Petersburg of yours in my present condition of mind. I go wandering about as though I had lost all interest in things, and were rather glad of the fact, in my present condition of mind.”
“What condition of mind?” asked Velchaninoff, frowning.
The visitor raised his eyes to Velchaninoff's, lifted his hat from the ground beside him, and with great dignity pointed out the black crape band.
“There, sir, in that condition of mind!” he observed.
Velchaninoff stared stupidly at the crape, and thence at the man's face. Suddenly his face flushed up in a hot blush for a moment, and he was violently agitated.
“Not Natalia Vasilievna, surely?”
“Yes, Natalia Vasilievna! Last March! Consumption, sir, and almost suddenly – all over in two or three months – and here am I left as you see me!”
So saying, Pavel Pavlovitch, with much show of feeling, bent his bald head down and kept it bent for some ten seconds, while he held out his two hands, in one of which was the hat with the band, in explanatory emotion.
This gesture, and the man's whole air, seemed to brighten Velchaninoff up; he smiled sarcastically for one instant, not more at present, for the news of this lady's death (he had known her so long ago, and had forgotten her many a year since) had made a quite unexpected impression upon his mind.
“Is it possible!” he muttered, using the first words that came to his lips, “and pray why did you not come here and tell me at once?”
“Thanks for your kind interest, I see and value it, in spite of – ”
“In spite of what?”
“In spite of so many years of separation you at once sympathised with my sorrow – and in fact with myself, and so fully too – that I feel naturally grateful. That's all I had to tell you, sir! Don't suppose I doubt my friends, you know; why, even here, in this place, I could put my finger on several very sincere friends indeed (for instance, Stepan Michailovitch Bagantoff); but remember, my dear Aleksey Ivanovitch – nine years have passed since we were acquaintances – or friends, if you'll allow me to say so – and meanwhile you have never been to see us, never written.”
The guest sang all this out as though he were reading it from music, but kept his eyes fixed on the ground the while, although, of course, he saw what was going on above his eyelashes exceedingly well all the same.
Velchaninoff had found his head by this time.
With a strange sort of fascinated attention, which strengthened itself every moment, he continued to gaze at and listen to Pavel Pavlovitch, and of a sudden, when the latter stopped speaking, a flood of curious ideas swept unexpectedly through his brain.
“But look here,” he cried, “how is it that I never recognized you all this while? – we've met five times, at least, in the streets!”
“Quite so – I am perfectly aware of the circumstance. You chanced to meet me two or three times, and – ”
“No, no! you met me, you know – not I you!” Velchaninoff suddenly burst into a roar of laughter, and rose from his seat. Pavel Pavlovitch paused a moment, looked keenly at Velchaninoff, and then continued:
“As to your not recognizing me, in the first place you might easily have forgotten me by now; and besides, I have had small-pox since last we met, and I daresay my face is a good deal marked.”
“Smallpox? why, how did you manage that? – he has had it, though, by Jove!” cried Velchaninoff. “What a funny fellow you are – however, go on, don't stop.”
Velchaninoff's spirits were rising higher and higher; he was beginning to feel wonderfully light-hearted. That feeling of agitation which had lately so disturbed him had given place to quite a different sentiment. He now began to stride up and down the room, very quickly.
“I was going to say,” resumed Pavel Pavlovitch, “that though I have met you several times, and though I quite intended to come and look you up, when I was arranging my visit to Petersburg, still, I was in that condition of mind, you know, and my wits have so suffered since last March, that – ”
“Wits since last March, – yes, go on: wait a minute – do you smoke?”
“Oh – you know, Natalia Vasilievna, never – ”
“Quite so; but since March – eh?”
“Well – I might, a cigarette or so.”
“Here you are, then! Light up and go on, – go on! you interest me wonderfully.”
Velchaninoff lit a cigar and sat down on his bed again. Pavel Pavlovitch paused a moment.
“But what a state of agitation you seem to be in yourself!” said he, “are you quite well?”
“Oh, curse my health!” cried Velchaninoff, – “you go on!”
The visitor observed his host's agitation with satisfaction; he went on with his share of the talking with more confidence.
“What am I to go on about?” he asked. “Imagine me, Alexey Ivanovitch – a broken man, – not simply broken, but gone at the root, as it were; a man forced to change his whole manner of living, after twenty years of married life, wandering about the dusty roads without an object, – mind lost – almost oblivious of his own self, – and yet, as it were, taking some sort of intoxicated delight in his loneliness! Isn't it natural that if I should, at such a moment of self-forgetfulness come across a friend – even a dear friend, I might prefer to avoid him for that moment? and isn't it equally natural that at another moment I should long to see and speak with some one who has been an eye-witness of, or a partaker, so to speak, in my never-to-be-recalled past? and to rush – not only in the day, but at night, if it so happens, – to rush to the embrace of such a man? – yes, even if one has to wake him up at three in the morning to do it! I was wrong in my time, not in my estimate of my friend, though, for at this moment I feel the full rapture of success; my rash action has been successful: I have found sympathy! As for the time of night, I confess I thought it was not twelve yet! You see, one sups of grief, and it intoxicates one, – at least, not grief, exactly, it's more the condition of mind – the new state of things that affects me.”
“Dear me, how oddly you express yourself!” said Velchaninoff, rising from his seat once more, and becoming quite serious again.
“Oddly, do I? Perhaps.”
“Look here: are you joking?”
“Joking!” cried Pavel Pavlovitch, in shocked surprise; “joking– at the very moment when I am telling you of – ”
“Oh – be quiet about that! for goodness sake.”
Velchaninoff started off on his journey up and down the room again.
So matters stood for five minutes or so: the visitor seemed inclined to rise from his chair, but Velchaninoff bade him sit still, and Pavel Pavlovitch obediently flopped into his seat again.
“How changed you are!” said the host at last, stopping in front of the other chair, as though suddenly struck with the idea; “fearfully changed!”
“Wonderful! you're quite another man!”
“That's hardly surprising! nine years, sir!”
“No, no, no! years have nothing to do with it! it's not in appearance you are so changed: it's something else!”
“Well, sir, the nine years might account for anything.”
“Perhaps it's only since March, eh?”
“Ha-ha! you are playful, sir,” said Pavel Pavlovitch, laughing slyly. “But, if I may ask it, wherein am I so changed?”
“Oh – why, you used to be such a staid, sober, correct Pavel Pavlovitch; such a wise Pavel Pavlovitch; and now you're a good-for-nothing sort of Pavel Pavlovitch.”
Velchaninoff was in that state of irritation when the steadiest, gravest people will sometimes say rather more than they mean.
“Good-for-nothing, am I? and wise no longer, I suppose, eh?” chuckled Pavel Pavlovitch, with disagreeable satisfaction.
“Wise, indeed! My dear sir, I'm afraid you are not sober,” replied Velchaninoff; and added to himself, “I am pretty fairly insolent myself, but I can't compare with this little cad! And what on earth is the fellow driving at?”
“Oh, my dear, good, my best of Alexey Ivanovitches,” said the visitor suddenly, most excitedly, and twisting about on his chair, “and why should I be sober? We are not moving in the brilliant walks of society – you and I – just now. We are but two dear old friends come together in the full sincerity of perfect love, to recall and talk over that sweet mutual tie of which the dear departed formed so treasured a link in our friendship.”
So saying, the sensitive gentleman became so carried away by his feelings that he bent his head down once more, to hide his emotion, and buried his face in his hat.
Velchaninoff looked on with an uncomfortable feeling of disgust.
“I can't help thinking the man is simply silly,” he thought; “and yet – no, no – his face is so red he must be drunk. But drunk or not drunk, what does the little wretch want with me? That's the puzzle.”
“Do you remember – oh, don't you remember – our delightful little evenings – dancing sometimes, or sometimes literary – at Simeon Simeonovitch's?” continued the visitor, gradually removing his hat from before his face, and apparently growing more and more enthusiastic over the memories of the past, “and our little readings – you and she and myself – and our first meeting, when you came in to ask for information about something connected with your business in the town, and commenced shouting angrily at me; don't you remember – when suddenly in came Natalia Vasilievna, and within ten minutes you were our dear friend, and so remained for exactly a year? Just like Turgenieff's story ‘The Provincialka!’ ”
Velchaninoff had continued his walk up and down the room during this tirade, with his eyes on the ground, listening impatiently and with disgust – but listening hard, all the same.
“It never struck me to think of 'The Provincialka' in connection with the matter,” he interrupted. “And look here, why do you talk in that sneaking, whining sort of voice? You never used to do that. Your whole manner is unlike yourself.”
“Quite so, quite so. I used to be more silent, I know. I used to love to listen while others talked. You remember how well the dear departed talked – the wit and grace of her conversation. As to The Provincialka, I remember she and I used often to compare your friendship for us to certain episodes in that piece, and especially to the doings of one Stupendief. It really was remarkably like that character and his doings.”
“What Stupendief do you mean, confound it all?” cried Velchaninoff, stamping his foot with rage. The name seemed to have evoked certain most irritating thoughts in his mind.
“Why, Stupendief, don't you know, the ‘husband’ in ‘Provincialka,’ ” whined Pavel Pavlovitch, in the very sweetest of tones; “but that belongs to another set of fond memories – after you departed, in fact, when Mr. Bagantoff had honoured us with his friendship, just as you had done before him, only that his lasted five whole years.”
“Bagantoff? What Bagantoff? Do you mean that same Bagantoff who was serving down in your town? Why, he also – ”
“Yes, yes! quite so. He also, he also!” cried the enthusiastic Pavel Pavlovitch, seizing upon Velchaninoff's accidental slip. “Of course! So that there you are – there's the whole company. Bagantoff played the ‘count,’ the dear departed was the ‘Provincialka,’ and I was the ‘husband,’ only that the part was taken away from me, for incapacity, I suppose!”
“Yes; fancy you a Stupendief. You're a – you're first a Pavel Pavlovitch Trusotsky!” said Velchaninoff, contemptuously, and very unceremoniously. “But look here! Bagantoff is in town; I know he is, for I have seen him. Why don't you go to see him as well as myself?”
“My dear sir, I've been there every day for the last three weeks. He won't receive me; he's ill, and can't receive! And, do you know, I have found out that he really is very ill! Fancy my feelings – a five-year's friend! Oh, my dear Alexey Ivanovitch! you don't know what my feelings are in my present condition of mind. I assure you, at one moment I long for the earth to open and swallow me up, and the next I feel that I must find one of those old friends, eyewitnesses of the past, as it were, if only to weep on his bosom, only to weep, sir – give you my word.”
“Well, that's about enough for to-night; don't you think so?” said Velchaninoff, cuttingly.
“Oh, too – too much!” cried the other, rising. “It must be four o'clock; and here am I agitating your feelings in the most selfish way.”
“Now, look here; I shall call upon you myself, and I hope that you will then – but, tell me honestly, are you drunk to-night?”
“Drunk! not the least in the world!”
“Did you drink nothing before you came here, or earlier?”
“Do you know, my dear Alexey Ivanovitch, you are quite in a high fever!”
“Good-night. I shall call to-morrow.”
“And I have noticed it all the evening, really quite delirious!” continued Pavel Pavlovitch, licking his lips, as it were, with satisfaction as he pursued this theme. “I am really quite ashamed that I should have allowed myself to be so awkward as to agitate you. Well, well; I'm going! Now you must lie down at once and go to sleep.”
