APPREHENSIONS.
One Friday, a few days before the Christmas of the third year, the two
girls were sitting together in the evening twilight, and the dean had
just come in with his pipe. The day had passed as most others during
these two years; a walk began the mornings, after breakfast an hour's
practising, next languages or other studies, and then a little
occupation in household duties. In the afternoon, each in her own room,
Signe busy to-day in writing to Odegaard, after whom Petra never
enquired, even as she never would speak of the past. Towards dusk, a
sledge drive, and now they were in, to converse or sing, or later to
read aloud. For this the dean always joined them. He read remarkably
well, and his daughter not less so; Petra learnt the style of both, and
especially their pronunciation. The tone of Signe's voice and accent
was so pleasing to her, that it rang in her ears when she was alone.
Petra held Signe in such high estimation, that the fourth part a man
would have taken for ardent love; she often made Signe blush. By the
dean or Signe reading aloud every evening, (Petra was not to be
persuaded to do it;) they had gone through the chief poets of
Scandinavia, and besides had read many of the best works in foreign
literature; the drama was preferred. Just as they were about to light
the lamps this evening to begin, the kitchen maid came in and said,
that there was some one outside who had a message for Petra. It proved
to be a sailor from her native place; her mother had enjoined him to
seek her, as he was going in that direction, he had now come seven
miles out of his way, and must hasten back, as the vessel would be
sailing. As Petra wanted to talk with him, she went part of the way
along the road, for he was a dependable man whom she knew. The evening
was rather dark, and there was no light from the windows except in the
wash house, where they were having a great wash; there was no light on
the road, and the road itself could scarcely be seen, till the moon
rose over the mountains; but Petra went boldly on into the forest,
though there were weird shadows cast among the branches. One piece of
intelligence especially had enticed her to go with him: the sailor had
told her that Pedro Ohlsen's mother was dead, whereupon he had sold the
house, and moved up to Gunlaug, where he occupied Petra's room. This
was about two years ago, yet the mother had never named a word about
it. Now, however, Petra could judge who it was that had written the
letters for her mother, a question she had often asked, but always in
vain; for every letter concluded with these words: "and a greeting from
the one that writes this letter." The sailor had it in charge to ask
her, how long she was going to stay at the deanery, and what she
intended to do afterwards. Petra replied to the first that she did not
know, and to the second that he must tell the mother, there was only
one thing she wished in the world, and if she did not get it, she would
be unhappy all her life; but just now she could not say what it was.
While Petra was talking to the sailor, the dean and Signe were sitting
in the dining room, talking about her to whom they were both very much
attached. Then the steward came up, and after giving in his report for
the day, he asked, if either of them knew, that the young lady living
with them went up and down from her room by a rope-ladder at nights. He
had to repeat it three times before either of them could conceive what
he meant; for he might as well have told them that she went up and down
on the moonbeams. It was dark in the room, and now it became perfectly
still; not even the sound of the dean's pipe. At length, with a certain
dull clink in his voice, he asked: "Who has seen it?"--"I have; I was
up attending to the horses, it would be about one o'clock."--"She went
down by a rope ladder?"--"And up again."--Again a long silence. Petra
occupied the room above, that looked on to the farm yard; she was alone
there, no one except her had a room on that side of the house, so there
could be no mistake who it was.--"It may have been in her sleep," said
the steward about to withdraw.--"She could not make the rope-ladder in
her sleep," said the dean.--"No, that was what I thought too,
therefore I judged it was best to tell it to him, father; I have not
mentioned it to any one else."--"Is there any one that has seen it
besides you?"--"No,--but if he, father, doubts the matter, let the
rope-ladder itself be the witness; if it is not there, I must have been
wrong."--The dean rose up quickly. "Father!" begged Signe.--"Bring a
light," said the dean in a way that did not allow of any opposition.
Signe lit it herself. "Father!" she begged once more, as she gave it
him.--"Yes, I am her father too, as long as she is in my house; it is
my duty to look into it,"--he went before with the light, Signe and the
steward after.
Everything was in order in the little room; only a whole row of books
lay open on the table in front of the bed, one on the top of the other.
"Does she read at night?"--"I don't know, but she never puts her light
out BEFORE one o'clock." The dean and Signe looked at each other,--they
separated at the deanery about ten or half-past, and they re-assembled
again in the morning at six or seven.--"Do YOU know anything about
it?" Signe did not reply. But the steward who was down on his knees in
the corner, seeking, answered from there: "She certainly is not
alone."--"What is that you are saying?"--"No, there is always some one
with her, talking to her; they often speak very loud; I have heard her
both plead for herself and threaten. She must be in the hand of some
evil power, poor thing!" Signe turned away; the dean had grown deathly
pale.--"And here is the ladder," said the steward, he pulled it out,
and got up. Two clothes lines were fastened together by a third, tied
in a hard knot, then carried across and fastened in a knot about half a
foot below, then back, and so on till the ladder was long enough. They
examined it carefully.--"Was she long away?" asked the dean.--The
steward looked at him, "How, away?"--"Was she long away, when she came
down?"--Signe stood and shivered from fear and cold.--"She did not go
anywhere, she went up again."--"Up again? Then who went away?"--Signe
turned, and burst into tears. "There was not any one with her that
evening, it was yesterday."--"Then there was no one on the ladder
except her?"--"No."--"And she went down and up again directly?"--"Yes."
"She has been proving it then," said the dean, and drew a long breath
as if relieved.--"Yes, before she let any one else go," added the
steward. The dean looked at him: "Then do you mean this is not the
first she has made?"--"No, otherwise how could people have got up to
her?"--"Have you known a long time that some one came to her?"--"Not
before this winter, when she began to burn her lamp at night. It never
struck me before to go down there."--"Then you have known it the whole
winter," said the dean severely; "why have you not told me before?"--"I
thought it was some one belonging to the house that was with her;--but
when I saw her on the ladder last night, it struck me it might be some
one else. If it had struck me before, I should have mentioned it
before."--"Yes,--it is clear enough she has deceived us all!" Signe
looked up imploringly. "She should not have a room so far away from the
others," observed the steward, rolling up the ladder. "She should not
have a room beneath my roof," said the dean, and went; the others
followed.
When he had gone down, and set the light away from him on the table,
Signe came and threw herself into his arms,----"Yes, my child, this is
a fearful disappointment." Shortly after, Signe was sitting in the sofa
corner, with a pocket handkerchief before her eyes, the dean had lit
his pipe, and walked quickly up and down. Suddenly there was a scream
from the kitchen, and they heard the servants run up stairs, and rush
along the passages overhead; they both hastened out: Petra's room was
on fire! A spark must have fallen from the light in the corner, for the
fire had sprung from there, and in a moment blazed along the wall-paper,
and reached the wood work of the window, when it had been observed by
some one passing by, who had run into the wash house and told them about
it. The fire was soon put out; but in the country, where everything has
its even routine from one year's end to another, any sudden interruption
causes great excitement. The fire is their worst, most dangerous enemy,
never out of their thoughts, and when he thus comes in the night,
thrusting his head up over the precipice, and licking greedily after his
prey, they tremble, and do not regain composure for weeks, some not even
for life.
When after this, the dean and his daughter again stood together in the
dining room, the lamps having been lit, they both felt there was
something ominous in the thought, that Petra's room had thus been
destroyed, and all traces of her burnt out. At the same moment, they
heard her clear voice, calling and questioning; she sprang up and down
stairs, ran from the attic to the passage, from the passage to the
kitchen, and finally came rushing in with her things on: "Heavens! my
room is burnt!" No one answered, and in the same breath, she asked:
"Who has been there? When did it happen? How did the fire break out?"
The dean now replied, that it was they who had been there: they had
been looking for something; he gave her a penetrating look. But Petra
did not give the slightest sign of finding this anything wonderful, nor
did she betray any fear for what they could have found. She did not
even suspect anything wrong when Signe did not look up from the sofa;
she attributed it to her fright from the fire, and she never ceased
asking, how it had been discovered, put out, who had got there first,
&c., and as she got no answer quickly, she ran out as she had come in.
But she soon came rushing in again, having partly taken off her things,
and told them how she had seen the light herself, and run so fearfully,
but was so glad now to find it was no worse. So saying, she took off
the rest of her things, carried them out, and coming in again, she
seated herself at the table, talking incessantly, of what this and that
one had said and done, the whole place indeed was turned upside down,
and it was very amusing. As the others continued silent, she expressed
her regret that it had spoilt the evening for them; for she had been
looking forward with so much pleasure to "Romeo and Juliet," which they
were then reading aloud; she was going to ask Signe that very evening
to read that scene over again, that she thought the finest of all: the
parting of Romeo and Juliet on the balcony. In the midst of her
chattering, one of the girls from the wash house came and said that
they were short of clothes lines, there was one bundle missing. Petra
grew suddenly red and got up; "I know where it is, I will go for it,"
she went a few steps, then remembering the fire, she stopped:
"Goodness, it will be burnt! it was in my room!" Signe had turned
towards her, the dean took a full view from the side: "What do you do
with clothes lines?" He breathed heavily, he could scarcely speak.
Petra looked at him, his fearfully grave look made her half afraid, but
the next moment it made her laugh, she strove a minute against it, but
looking at him again, she burst into such a hearty fit of laughter that
she could not stop;--there was no more of a troubled conscience in it,
than in a rippling brook. Signe heard it in her voice and sprang up
from the sofa: "What is it, what is it?"--Petra turned round, laughed
and hopped about, she ran to the door, but Signe stopped the way: "What
is it, Petra, tell me?" Petra ran behind her as if to hide, but
continued to laugh immoderately. No, guilt does not behave so, now the
dean could see that too;--he who stood on the point of bursting into a
rage, hopped down into laughter instead, and Signe after him; nothing
in the world is more catching than laughter, and especially laughter
that is entirely incomprehensible. The vain attempts which now the
dean, now Signe made to get to know what they were laughing at, only
made them laugh the more; the maid, who was standing waiting, at last
could resist it no longer, and began to roar; she had that
extraordinary laughter as though it came from a pit with hoisting and
heaving; she felt, herself, that it did not suit to fine furniture and
people, so she hastened to the door to give free vent to it in the
kitchen. Of course she took the contagion with her there; soon a whole
volley of laughter poured in from the kitchen, where they knew still
less what they were laughing at, and this made the laughter in the
dining room break out anew.
When at last they were almost done up, Signe made a last attempt to get
to know the cause: "Now you must tell me!" she exclaimed, holding
Petra's hands.--"No, not for the world!"--"Yes, but I know what it is!"
she said: "and my father knows as well!" Petra screamed and slipped
loose, but on reaching the door, Signe caught her again, then Petra
turned to free herself, she would get away at any price, she laughed
while she struggled, but there were tears in her eyes; then Signe left
loose,--Petra ran, and Signe after her, till they reached the room of
the latter. There they embraced each other, "Mercy! do you really
know?" whispered Petra.--"Yes, we were up in your room with the
steward, who had seen you,--and we found the ladder!"--Fresh screams,
and fresh flight, but this time only to the sofa corner, where she hid
herself Signe came, and bending over her, she whispered in her ear, all
about their journey of discovery, with its pleasing consequences;--that
which an hour ago had cost her both tears and fears, seemed now so
amusing that she told it with humour! Petra listened and stopped her
ears, looked up and hid herself by turns. When Signe had finished, and
they were sitting together in the darkness, Petra whispered: "Do you
know how it is? It is impossible to sleep at ten o'clock, when we go to
our rooms, that which we have read has far too much power over me. So I
learn it by heart, all the best pieces,--I know several scenes, and
read them aloud to myself. When we came to Romeo and Juliet, it seemed
the most delightful thing upon earth; I grew wild, I must try that with
the rope ladder, I had never thought anyone could go up and down on a
rope ladder.... I got hold of some ropes,--and there that fellow was
standing below and watching me!--Yes, but it is nothing to laugh at,
Signe, it is so boyish, I shall never be anything else than a boy,--and
now to-morrow I shall be a laughing stock for the whole neighbourhood."
But Signe, who had begun to laugh again, kissed her, gave her a
clap, and ran out, saying: "No, I must tell father!"--"Are you mad,
Signe!"--and away they rushed. The dean was just coming out to see what
had become of them, and they nearly knocked him over; Signe told him
the whole story.
After tea where she was duly teased by the dean, Petra, by way of
punishment, was to recite what she knew by heart. It proved to be a
fact that she knew all the most celebrated scenes and not only one part
in them, but all. She recited as if she were reading, now and then she
was almost on fire, but then she would suddenly check herself. The dean
had hardly observed this, before he would have a little more
expression, but it only made her more shy. The recitation continued
several hours; she knew the comic scenes as well as the tragic, the
playful as well as the serious;--her memory both astonished and amused
them, she laughed, and told them only to try her.
"I wish the poor actors had but the eighth part of the memory you
have!" said Signe.--"God preserve her from ever being an actress," said
the dean, at once becoming earnest.--"But father, you don't suppose
Petra has any idea of such a thing?" said Signe laughing: "I have
always observed that any one educated from youth up in the poetry of
his language, has no longing at all to go upon the stage, while those
who do not know much about poetry till they are grown up, revel in the
thought of it, it is the longing of poetry, a longing all at once
awakened in them that impels them."--"That is very true; it is not often
that a really educated person will go upon the stage."--"And still more
seldom one poetically educated," said Signe--"Yes, if it occurs there
is a want in the character, which allows vanity and levity to get the
upper hand. In my travels abroad, and also when studying, I became
acquainted with many actors, but I have never known, and I have never
heard of any one knowing an actor, who led a really Christian life. I
have seen that they have felt themselves called, but there is something
restless and unsatisfying in their occupation; they have found it
impossible to collect themselves--even long after they have left it. If
I have spoken with them about it, they have admitted and lamented it,
but yet they have at once added: 'But we may console ourselves with the
thought that we are not worse than so many others.' But this is what I
call poor consolation. A life that does not in any way build up our
spiritual manhood, is a sinful life. The Lord help them, and may He
keep pure hearts away from it!"
* * *
The next day, Saturday, the dean as usual was up before seven, went his
morning round among the labourers, and then going further, he returned
in daylight. As he was going past the house to the farm yard, he saw an
open exercise book, or something of the sort, which must have been
thrown out of Petra's window the evening before, and not found, because
it was the colour of the snow. He took up the book, and carried it in
with him to his study; in opening the leaves to dry them, he saw it was
an old French exercise book, in which verses were now written. He never
thought of reading the verses, but he caught sight of the word,
"Actress," written all over,--even in the verses themselves ... He sat
down to examine it.
After repeated erasures and corrections, he came at last to the
following rhyme, which though not copied, could still be read:
"Come listen my love, and hear me say,
The longing that fills me from day to day,
An actress I'll be, and I'll picture true,
To the world a woman from every view,--
How she suffers, and how she laughs,
How she prays, and loves, and chaffs,
How she is when she is sinful,
How she is when she is peaceful,
Oh God, I pray Thee, help Thou me,
To be the one that I aim to be!"
And a little below the following:
"May not I be Thy servant, Lord?
Wilt Thou not Thy help afford?"
Under this, was a verse, in imitation no doubt, of a poem they had read
a few months before:
"Oh, a river nymph to be,
Nymph to be,
Moonbeams shining full and free,
Full and free,
Glide along, and turn in glee,
Turn in glee,
Death to him who in will see,
In will see,
--No, that would be sin, lirum, larum, ba!--"
And after repeated corrections, marks and notes:
"Hop, sa, sa,--hop, sa, sa,
I'll dance with every one, but they'll never catch me, ha!
Tra, la, la,--tra, la, la,
Be always number one, but keep them all afar!"
Then distinctly and clearly, the following letter:
"Dearest Henrich,
Don't you think you and I are the best in the whole comedy? It gives us
a great deal of annoyance, but that is nothing; I engrasserer thee to
go to the masquerade with me to-morrow night; for I have never been,
and I long for some real fun; here at home, it is so quiet and lonely.
Du est a great rascal, Henrich,--wherever are you keeping yourself? for
here sits
Your Pernille."
Finally in large letters, written distinctly and several times over,
the following verse; she might have found it somewhere, and wanted to
learn it by heart:
"In my heart, an inward burning,
'Tis the Great within me yearning,--
From the hidden springs to draw,--
Loki bind in Baldur's law,
Power to speak with power imbibe,
High and noble thoughts describe,--
Thereto help in mercy, Thou
Who the need awakens now!"
There was a great deal more, but the dean did not read it.
Then it was to be an actress that she had entered his house, and taken
instruction from his daughter. It was with this secret aim, she was so
eager to hear them read aloud, and then afterwards learn by heart. She
had been deceiving them the whole time; even yesterday, when she seemed
to be telling them everything, she was hiding something: when she
seemed to laugh so innocently, she was lying.
O this secret purpose! That which the dean had so often condemned in
her presence, SHE embellished with the calling of God, and dared to ask
His blessing upon it! A life of appulance and frivolity, of jealousy
and passion, of idleness and sensuality, of lies and growing
unprincipledness, a life over which the vultures gather, as over a
carcase, was that to which she longed to attach herself, and prayed God
to consecrate! And it was to this life, that the dean and his daughter
had helped her forward in the quiet parsonage, under the watchful eyes
of the awakened church.
When Signe, bright and cheerful as the winter morning, came in to greet
her father, she found the study entirely filled with tobacco smoke.
This was always a sign of trouble, but especially so early in the
morning. He did not speak a word to her, but gave her the book,--she
saw directly it was Petra's; a shadow of the mistrust and pain of
yesterday, came over her, she dared not look at it; her heart beat so
violently that she was obliged to sit down. But the same word that had
attracted the dean's attention, caught hers too; she must see more, so
she read on. Her first feeling was one of shame--not for Petra,--but
because her father had seen it too.
But she soon experienced the deep mortification, that comes when we
find ourselves deceived by one we love. For a moment, the one who has
been able to do it, seems greater, more ingenious, wiser than we, yea,
he may even glide into the mysterious. But soon the mind is aroused in
indignation; integrity is strengthened by the powers which are not
secret, though they are unseen: we feel able to defy a hundred cunning
devices; we DESPISE, what at first caused us mortification.
Petra had seated herself at the piano in the dining room, and now they
heard her singing:
"The morning has dawned, and joy to awaken,
--The forts of despondency stormed and taken,--
Over the glowing mountain tops,
The host of the king of daylight drops.
'Up, up, up,' little birds of the wood,
'Up, up, up,' little children good,
And up, my hope with the sun!"
And then a storm swept over the instrument, and out of it burst the
following song:
"In vain you may plead,
For my boat I must lead,
Through the breakers rough,
To the tempest tough.
And should it be proved the last push from the shore,
I must venture what never I ventured before.
Not for fancy or boast
Do I leave your coast;--
I must reach the deep sea,
And the waves ride free.
I must e'en see the keel, as she cuts through the wave,
And thus prove if my vessel knows how to behave!"
No, this was too much for the dean, he snatched the book from Signe's
hand, and rushed to the door; this time she did not hold him back. He
went straight to Petra, threw the book on the piano before her, turned,
and strode across the room; when he came back, she had risen, and
pressing the book to her heart, she looked all round with a confused
expression. He stopped to give her his full mind, but his anger at the
thought that for more than two years he had been made use of by this
wily girl, and especially that his warm-hearted, affectionate daughter
had been duped by her, came so forcibly before him, that he did not at
once find words,--and when he did find them, he felt they were too
hard. After striding once more across the floor, and once more coming
opposite to her, his face scarlet, he turned his back, and without a
word walked into his study. When he came there, Signe was gone.
All that day they kept to their own rooms. The dean dined alone,
neither of the girls appeared. Petra was in the housekeeper's room,
which had been alloted to her since the fire; she sought all over for
Signe to explain to her, but in vain: she could not be at home.
Petra felt this to be a decisive moment in her life. Her most secret
thoughts had slipped from her, and they would try to exert an influence
over them, which she could not bear. She knew best herself, that if she
relinquished this object, she would be driven at the mercy of the
winds. She could be light-hearted with the light-hearted, and
confidential with the confidential, hopeful in everything, but it was
in the strength of that secret purpose,--that some time she would be
able to secure that after which her powers were yearning. To confide in
any one, after that first baulking attempt at Bergen,--no, she could
not do it, not even in Odegaard himself! She must be alone in it, until
her aim had grown so strong, that it could bear to hear the doubts that
would be breathed upon it.
But now it had happened otherwise: the dean's fiery red face
looked continually down upon her scared conscience.--She must save
herself!--She sought for Signe more earnestly and hurriedly in the
afternoon, but still she was not to be found. The longer one whom we
seek hides from us, the greater we depict the cause of separation, and
thus it was, that at last she made herself believe it had been
treachery against Signe, secretly to use her friendship for that which
Signe thought to be a sin. The omniscient God must be her witness, that
this view of her conduct had never struck her before; she felt herself
a great sinner.
Just as before at home, she now stood with the feeling of a great sin
upon her conscience, of which a moment before, she had no suspicion.
That that terrible experience might be repeated, augmented her vague
fear to terror; she saw before her a future of unhappiness. But in
proportion as her own guilt increased, Signe's image stood forth in
purity and disinterested attachment.
It had grown dark, wherever Signe had been she must have got home. She
ran down the passage leading to the wing where Signe's room was; the
door was locked,--a sign that she was there. Her heart beat as she
took hold of the handle, and begged again: "Signe, let me speak to
you!--Signe, I cannot bear it!"--Not a sound; Petra bent down to
listen, and knocked again: "Signe, oh Signe, you don't know how unhappy
I am." No reply; long listening, still none. If one gets no answer, one
doubts at last if anyone is there, even if one knows there is someone,
and if it is dark, one gets afraid. "Signe,--Signe! if you are there,
be merciful,--answer me,--Signe!" All was silence; a cold shiver came
over her. The kitchen door opened, and quick steps were heard in the
court yard below. This gave her a thought, she would go out herself,
get up on the ledge on the wall of the wing, and go round the whole
building to get to the other side where it was very high. She would see
Signe.
It was a bright starlight night, the mountains stood in sharp outline,
the snow sparkled, the dark footpaths only increased the sharpness of
the light; from the road the sledge bells were sounding, she felt
inspirited, and sprang up on the ledge. She tried to hold fast by the
outside boarding of the house, but she lost her balance and fell. Then
she rolled an empty cask against the wall and got up from it on to the
ledge. By moving hands and feet together, she could get about half a
foot at a time; it required a strong hand to keep fast; she could not
get well hold for the boards were scarcely an inch thick. She was
afraid lest any one should see her, for they would naturally connect it
with the rope ladder. If she could but get away from this side that
faced the farm, and out on to the cross wall; but when at last she did
get there, a new danger awaited her; there was nothing before the
windows, and she had to stoop down, in great fear of falling, every
time she passed them. The long wall was very high, but there was a
gooseberry hedge to receive her if she fell; she was not afraid. Her
fingers tingled, her muscles quivered, but on she went. A few steps
more and she would reach the window. There was no light in Signe's
room, and the blind was not drawn down; the moon was shining full in,
so she would be able to see into the farthest corners. This gave her
fresh courage, she reached the window ledge, and at last could get a
full hold and rest; as she got near, her heart began to beat so that it
almost took her breath, but as it only grew worse by waiting, she must
make haste--so she suddenly leaned right against the window. A sharp
cry answered from the room. Signe had been sitting in the sofa corner,
she sprang on to the floor, and with both arms warding off the fearful
apparition, she rushed out of the room.
In a moment Petra realised what her unfortunate freak had done;--this
figure against the window, this thoughtless repulsive boldness--; her
image henceforth would be a constant terror to Signe; she lost
consciousness, and fell with a piercing shriek.
The people in the house had run out on hearing Signe's scream, but
found nothing,--another scream,--the whole farm was astir; they sought,
they called, but in vain; it was purely accidental that the dean came
to look out of the window in Signe's room, and in the moonlight saw
Petra buried in the bushes. It was with great difficulty they could get
her extricated and carried up; she was taken into Signe's room, as the
housekeeper's was cold, she was undressed and put to bed. Some of them
bathed her hands and neck, while others made the room warm, light and
comfortable. When she came to herself, and looked about, she begged to
be left alone.
The quiet comfort of the room, the fine white dimity that draped the
window, dressing table, chairs and bed, reminded her at once of Signe.
She thought of her pure loveliness, her mild voice that flowed milk
white, her delicate feeling for the thoughts of others, her gentle
benevolence. She had shut herself out from all this; she must soon
leave the room, and probably the house. And where to then? She could
not expect a third time to be taken up from the highway, and if she
could, she would not; for it would end only in the same way. No human
being could have confidence in her; whatever the cause, she felt that
it was so. She had not got a step further, she never could get further;
for without the confidence of her fellow creatures, she could not
succeed. How she prayed, how she wept! She fell back and wrung her
hands in an agony of mind, till she was fairly exhausted and slept.
In her sleep, everything became snow white, and by-and-by lofty; she
had never before seen so high and so brilliant a glitter of millions of
stars.