humour has a bitter core; the laughter that rings through it is the
harsh, implacable laughter of Carlyle. His criticism of commonplace
love-making is at first sight harmless and ordinary enough. The
ceremonial formalities of the continental _Verlobung_, the shrill
raptures of aunts and cousins over the engaged pair, the satisfied
smile of enterprising materfamilias as she reckons up the tale of
daughters or of nieces safely married off under her auspices; or,
again, the embarrassments incident to a prolonged _Brautstand_
following a hasty wooing, the deadly effect of familiarity upon a
shallow affection, and the anxious efforts to save the appearance of
romance when its zest has departed—all these things had yielded such
“comedy” as they possess to many others before Ibsen, and an Ibsen
was not needed to evoke it. But if we ask what, then, is the right
way from which these “comic” personages in their several fashions
diverge; what is the condition which will secure courtship from
ridicule, and marriage from disillusion, Ibsen abruptly parts
company with all his predecessors. “‘Of course,’ reply the rest in
chorus, ‘a deep and sincere love’;—‘together,’ add some, 'with
prudent good sense.'” The prudent good sense Ibsen allows; but he
couples with it the startling paradox that the first condition of a
happy marriage is the absence of love, and the first condition of an
enduring love the absence of marriage.
The student of the latter-day Ibsen is naturally somewhat taken
aback to find the grim poet of Doubt, whose task it seems to be to
apply a corrosive criticism to modern institutions in general and to
marriage in particular, gravely defending the “marriage of
convenience.” And his amazement is not diminished by the sense that
the author of this plea for the loveless marriage, which poets have
at all times scorned and derided, was himself beyond question a
poet, ardent, brilliant, and young, and himself, what is more, quite
recently and beyond question happily, married. The truth is that
there are two men—in Ibsen an idealist, exalted to the verge of
sentimentality, and a critic, hard, inexorable, remorseless, to the
verge of cynicism. What we call his “social philosophy” is a _modus
vivendi_ arrived at between them. Both agree in repudiating
“marriage for love”; but the idealist repudiates it in the name of
love, the critic in the name of marriage. Love, for the idealist
Ibsen, is a passion which loses its virtue when it reaches its goal,
which inspires only while it aspires, and flags bewildered when it
attains. Marriage, for the critic Ibsen, is an institution beset
with pitfalls into which those are surest to step who enter in
blinded with love. In the latter dramas the tragedy of married life
is commonly generated by other forms of blindness—the childish
innocence of Nora, the maidenly ignorance of Helena Alving, neither
of whom married precisely “for love”; here it is blind Love alone
who, to the jealous eye of the critic, plays the part of the Serpent
in the Edens of wedded bliss. There is, it is clear, an element of
unsolved contradiction in Ibsen’s thought;—Love is at once so
precious and so deadly, a possession so glorious that all other
things in life are of less worth, and yet capable of producing only
disastrously illusive effects upon those who have entered into the
relations to which it prompts. But with Ibsen—and it is a grave
intellectual defect—there is an absolute antagonism between spirit
and form. An institution is always, with him, a shackle for the free
life of souls, not an organ through which they attain expression;
and since the institution of marriage cannot but be, there remains
as the only logical solution that which he enjoins—to keep the
soul’s life out of it. To “those about to marry,” Ibsen therefore
says in effect, “Be sure you are not in love!” And to those who are
in love he says, “Part!”
It is easy to understand the irony with which a man who thought thus
of love contemplated the business of “love-making,” and the
ceremonial discipline of Continental courtship. The whole unnumbered
tribe of wooing and plighted lovers were for him unconscious actors
in a world-comedy of Love’s contriving—naïve fools of fancy,
passionately weaving the cords that are to strangle passion. Comedy
like this cannot be altogether gay; and as each fresh romance decays
into routine, and each aspiring passion goes out under the spell of
a vulgar environment, or submits to the bitter salvation of a final
parting, the ringing laughter grows harsh and hollow, and notes of
ineffable sadness escape from the poet’s Stoic self-restraint.
Ibsen had grown up in a school which cultivated the romantic,
piquant, picturesque in style; which ran riot in wit, in vivacious
and brilliant imagery, in resonant rhythms and telling double
rhymes. It must be owned that this was not the happiest school for a
dramatist, nor can _Love’s Comedy_ be regarded, in the matter of
style, as other than a risky experiment which nothing but the sheer
dramatic force of an Ibsen could have carried through. As it is,
there are palpable fluctuations, discrepancies of manner; the
realism of treatment often provokes a realism of style out of
keeping with the lyric afflatus of the verse; and we pass with
little warning from the barest colloquial prose to strains of
high-wrought poetic fancy. Nevertheless, the style, with all its
inequalities, becomes in Ibsen’s hands a singularly plastic medium
of dramatic expression. The marble is too richly veined for ideal
sculpture, but it takes the print of life. The wit, exuberant as it
is, does not coruscate indiscriminately upon all lips; and it has
many shades and varieties—caustic, ironical, imaginative, playful,
passionate—which take their temper from the speaker’s mood.
The present version of the play retains the metres of the original,
and follows it in general line for line. For a long passage,
occupying substantially the first twenty pages, the translator is
indebted to the editor of the present work; and two other
passages—Falk’s tirades on pp. 58 and 100—result from a fusion of
versions made independently by us both.
C. H. H.
LADY INGER OF ÖSTRÅT
(1855)
CHARACTERS
LADY INGER OTTISDAUGHTER RÖMER, _widow of High Steward Nils
Gyldenlöve._
ELINA GYLDENLÖVE, _her daughter._
NILS LYKKE, _Danish knight and councillor._
OLAF SKAKTAVL, _an outlawed Norwegian noble._
NILS STENSSON.
JENS BIELKE, _Swedish commander._
BIÖRN, _majordomo at Östråt._
FINN, _a servant._
EINAR HUK, _bailiff at Östråt._
_Servants, peasants, and Swedish men-at-arms._
-------
_The action takes place at Östråt Manor, on the Trondhiem Fiord, in
the year 1528._
[PRONUNCIATION OF NAMES.—Östråt = _Östrot_; Elina (Norwegian, Eline)
= _Eleena_; Stensson = _Staynson_; Biörn = _Byörn_; Jens Bielke =
_Yens Byelke_; Huk = _Hook_. The _g_'s in “Inger” and in
“Gyldenlöve” are, of course, hard. The final _e_'s and the _ö_'s
pronounced much as in German.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LADY INGER OF ÖSTRÅT | DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS
----------
ACT FIRST
_A room at Östråt. Through an open door in the back, the
Banquet Hall is seen in faint moonlight, which shines
fitfully through a deep bow-window in the opposite wall.
To the right, an entrance-door; further forward, a
curtained window. On the left, a door leading to the
inner rooms; further forward a large open fireplace,
which casts a glow over the room. It is a stormy
evening._
BIÖRN _and_ FINN _are sitting by the fireplace. The latter
is occupied in polishing a helmet. Several pieces of
armour lie near them, along with a sword and shield._
FINN.
[_After a pause._] Who was Knut[12] Alfson?
BIÖRN.
My Lady says he was the last of Norway’s knighthood.
FINN.
And the Danes killed him at Oslo-fiord?
BIÖRN.
If you know not that, ask any child of five.
FINN.
So Knut Alfson was the last of our knighthood? And now he’s
dead and gone! [_Holds up the helmet._] Well, thou must e’en
be content to hang scoured and bright in the Banquet Hall;
for what art thou now but an empty nut-shell? The kernel—the
worms have eaten that many a winter agone.
What say you, Biörn—may not one call Norway’s land an empty
nut-shell, even like the helmet here; bright without,
worm-eaten within?
BIÖRN.
Hold your peace, and mind your task!—Is the helmet ready?
FINN.
It shines like silver in the moonlight.
BIÖRN.
Then put it by.—See here; scrape the rust off the sword.
FINN.
[_Turning the sword over and examining it._]
Is it worth while?
BIÖRN.
What mean you?
FINN.
The edge is gone.
BIÖRN.
What’s that to you? Give it me.—Here, take the shield.
FINN.
[_As before._] There is no grip to it!
BIÖRN.
[_Mutters._] Let me get a grip on _you_——
[FINN _hums to himself for a while._
BIÖRN.
What now?
FINN.
An empty helmet, a sword with no edge, a shield with no
grip—so it has all come to that. Who can blame Lady Inger if
she leaves such weapons to hang scoured and polished on the
walls, instead of rusting them in Danish blood?
BIÖRN.
Folly! Is there not peace in the land?
FINN.
Peace? Ay, when the peasant has shot away his last arrow,
and the wolf has reft the last lamb from the fold, then is
there peace between them. But ’tis a strange friendship.
Well, well; let that pass. ’Tis fitting, as I said, that the
harness hang bright in the hall; for you know the old saw:
“Call none a man but the knightly man.” So now that we have
never a knight in the land, we have never a man; and where
no man is, there must women order things; therefore——
BIÖRN.
Therefore—therefore I bid you hold your foul prate!
[_Rises._
The evening wears on. Enough; you may hang the helmet and
armour in the hall again.
FINN.
[_In a low voice._] Nay, best let it be till to-morrow.
BIÖRN.
What, do you fear the dark?
FINN.
Not by day. And if so be I fear it at even, I am not the
only one. Ah, you may look; I tell you in the housefolk’s
room there is talk of many things. [_Lower._] They say that,
night by night, a tall figure, clad in black, walks the
Banquet Hall.
BIÖRN.
Old wives’ tales!
FINN.
Ah, but they all swear ’tis true.
BIÖRN.
That I well believe.
FINN.
The strangest of all is that Lady Inger thinks the same——
BIÖRN.
[_Starting._] Lady Inger? What does she think?
FINN.
What Lady Inger thinks? I warrant few can tell that. But
sure it is that she has no rest in her. See you not how day
by day she grows thinner and paler? [_Looks keenly at him._]
They say she never sleeps—and that it is because of the
black figure——
[_While he is speaking,_ ELINA GYLDENLÖVE _has
appeared in the half-open door on the left. She
stops and listens, unobserved._
BIÖRN.
And you believe such follies?
FINN.
Well, half and half. There be folk, too, that read
things another way. But that is pure malice, I’ll be
bound.—Hearken, Biörn—know you the song that is going
round the country?
BIÖRN.
A song?
FINN.
Ay, ’tis on all folks’ lips. ’Tis a shameful scurril thing,
for sure; yet it goes prettily. Just listen: [_Sings in a
low voice._
Dame Inger sitteth in Östråt fair,
She wraps her in costly furs—
She decks her in velvet and ermine and vair,
Red gold are the beads that she twines in her hair—
But small peace in that soul of hers.
Dame Inger hath sold her to Denmark’s lord.
She bringeth her folk ’neath the stranger’s yoke—
In guerdon whereof—
[BIÖRN _enraged, seizes him by the throat._ ELINA
GYLDENLÖVE _withdraws without having been seen._
BIÖRN.
I will send you guerdonless to the foul fiend, if you prate
of Lady Inger but one unseemly word more.
FINN.
[_Breaking from his grasp._] Why—did _I_ make the song?
[_The blast of a horn is heard from the right._
BIÖRN.
Hark—what is that?
FINN.
A horn. Then there come guests to-night.
BIÖRN.
[_At the window._] They are opening the gate. I hear the
clatter of hoofs in the courtyard. It must be a knight.
FINN.
A knight? Nay, that can scarce be.
BIÖRN.
Why not?
FINN.
Did you not say yourself: the last of our knighthood is dead
and gone?
[_Goes out to the right._
BIÖRN.
The accursed knave, with his prying and peering! What avails
all my striving to hide and hush things? They whisper of her
even now—; soon all men will be shouting aloud that——
ELINA.
[_Comes in again through the door on the left; looks round
her, and says with suppressed emotion:_] Are you alone,
Biörn?
BIÖRN.
Is it you, Mistress Elina?
ELINA.
Come, Biörn, tell me one of your stories; I know you can
tell others than those that-—-
BIÖRN.
A story? Now—so late in the evening——?
ELINA.
If you count from the time when it grew dark at Östråt, then
’tis late indeed.
BIÖRN.
What ails you? Has aught crossed you? You seem so restless.
ELINA.
May be so.
BIÖRN.
There is something amiss. I have hardly known you this half
year past.
ELINA.
Bethink you: this half year past my dearest sister Lucia has
been sleeping in the vault below.
BIÖRN.
That is not all, Mistress Elina—it is not that alone that
makes you now thoughtful and white and silent, now restless
and ill at ease, as you are to-night.
ELINA.
Not that alone, you think? And wherefore not? Was she not
gentle and pure and fair as a summer night? Biörn,—I tell
you, Lucia was dear to me as my life. Have you forgotten how
many a time, when we were children, we sat on your knee in
the winter evenings? You sang songs to us, and told us
tales——
BIÖRN.
Ay, then you were blithe and gay.
ELINA.
Ah, then, Biörn! Then I lived a glorious life in fable-land,
and in my own imaginings. Can it be that the sea-strand was
naked then as now? If it was so, I knew it not. ’Twas there
I loved to go weaving all my fair romances; my heroes came
from afar and sailed again across the sea; I lived in their
midst, and set forth with them when they sailed away.
[_Sinks on a chair._] Now I feel so faint and weary; I can
live no longer in my tales. They are only—tales. [_Rising,
vehemently._] Biörn, know you what has made me sick? A
truth; a hateful, hateful truth, that gnaws me day and
night.
BIÖRN.
What mean you?
ELINA.
Do you remember how sometimes you would give us good counsel
and wise saws? Sister Lucia followed them; but I—ah,
well-a-day!
BIÖRN.
[_Consoling her._] Well, well—-!
ELINA.
I know it—I was proud, overweening! In all our games, I
would still be the Queen, because I was the tallest, the
fairest, the wisest! I know it!
BIÖRN.
That is true.
ELINA.
Once you took me by the hand and looked earnestly at me, and
said: “Be not proud of your fairness, or your wisdom; but be
proud as the mountain eagle as often as you think: I am
Inger Gyldenlöve’s daughter!”
BIÖRN.
And was it not matter enough for pride?
ELINA.
You told me so often enough, Biörn! Oh, you told me many a
tale in those days. [_Presses his hand._] Thanks for them
all!—Now, tell me one more; it might make me light of heart
again, as of old.
BIÖRN.
You are a child no longer.
ELINA.
Nay, indeed! But let me dream that I am.—Come, tell on!
[_Throws herself into a chair._ BIÖRN _sits on the
edge of the high hearth._
BIÖRN.
Once upon a time there was a high-born knight——
ELINA.
[_Who has been listening restlessly in the direction of the
hall, seizes his arm and breaks out in a vehement whisper._]
Hush! No need to shout so loud; I can hear well!
BIÖRN.
[_More softly._] Once upon a time there was a high-born
knight, of whom there went the strange report——
[ELINA _half rises, and listens in anxious suspense
in the direction of the hall._
BIÖRN.
Mistress Elina,—what ails you?
ELINA.
[_Sits down again._] Me? Nothing. Go on.
BIÖRN.
Well, as I was saying—did this knight but look straight in a
woman’s eyes, never could she forget it after; her thoughts
must follow him wherever he went, and she must waste away
with sorrow.
ELINA.
I have heard that tale.—Moreover, ’tis no tale you are
telling, for the knight you speak of is Nils Lykke, who sits
even now in the Council of Denmark——
BIÖRN.
May be so.
ELINA.
Well, let it pass—go on!
BIÖRN.
Now it happened once on a time——
ELINA.
[_Rises suddenly._] Hush; be still!
BIÖRN.
What now? What is the matter?
ELINA.
[_Listening._] Do you hear?
BIÖRN.
What?
ELINA.
It is there! Yes, by the cross of Christ, it _is_ there!
BIÖRN.
[_Rises._] _What_ is there? Where?
ELINA.
She herself—in the hall——
[_Goes hastily towards the hall._
BIÖRN.
[_Following._] How can you think—? Mistress Elina,—go to
your chamber!
ELINA.
Hush; stand still! Do not move; do not let her see you!
Wait—the moon is coming out. Can you not see the black-robed
figure——?
BIÖRN.
By all the saints——!
ELINA.
Do you see—she turns Knut Alfson’s picture to the wall.
Ha-ha; be sure it looks her too straight in the eyes!
BIÖRN.
Mistress Elina, hear me!
ELINA.
[_Going back towards the fireplace._] Now I know what I
know!
BIÖRN.
[_To himself._] Then it is true!
ELINA.
Who was it, Biörn? Who was it?
BIÖRN.
You saw as plainly as I.
ELINA.
Well? Whom did I see?
BIÖRN.
You saw your mother.
ELINA.
[_Half to herself._] Night after night I have heard her
steps in there. I have heard her whispering and moaning like
a soul in pain. And what says the song—? Ah, now I know! Now
I know that——
BIÖRN.
Hush!
[LADY INGER GYLDENLÖVE _enters rapidly from the
hall, without noticing the others; she goes to
the window, draws the curtain, and gazes out as
if watching for some one on the high road; after
a while, she turns and goes slowly back into the
hall._
ELINA.
[_Softly, following her with her eyes._] White, white as the
dead——!
[_An uproar of many voices is heard outside the door
on the right._
BIÖRN.
What can this be?
ELINA.
Go out and see what is amiss.
[EINAR HUK, _the bailiff, appears in the anteroom,
with a crowd of_ RETAINERS _and_ PEASANTS.
EINAR HUK.
[_In the doorway._] Straight in to her! And be not abashed!
BIÖRN.
What seek you?
EINAR HUK.
Lady Inger herself.
BIÖRN.
Lady Inger? So late?
EINAR HUK.
Late, but time enough, I wot.
THE PEASANTS.
Yes, yes; she must hear us now!
[_The whole rabble crowds into the room. At the same
moment_ LADY INGER _appears in the doorway of
the hall. A sudden silence._
LADY INGER.
What would you with me?
EINAR HUK.
We sought you, noble lady, to——
LADY INGER.
Well—say on!
EINAR HUK.
Why, we are not ashamed of our errand. In one word—we come
to pray you for weapons and leave——
LADY INGER.
Weapons and leave—? And for what?
EINAR HUK.
There has come a rumour from Sweden that the people of the
Dales have risen against King Gustav——
LADY INGER.
The people of the Dales?
EINAR HUK.
Ay, so the tidings run, and they seem sure enough.
LADY INGER.
Well—if it were so—what have you to do with, the Dale-folk’s
rising?
THE PEASANTS.
We will join them! We will help. We will free ourselves!
LADY INGER.
[_To herself._] Can the time be come?
EINAR HUK.
From all our borderlands the peasants are pouring across to
the Dales. Even outlaws that have wandered for years in the
mountains are venturing down to the homesteads again, and
drawing men together, and whetting their rusty swords.
LADY INGER.
[_After a pause._] Tell me, men—have you thought well of
this? Have you counted the cost, if King Gustav’s men should
win?
BIÖRN.
[_Softly and imploringly to_ LADY INGER.] Count the cost to
the Danes if King Gustav’s men should lose.
LADY INGER.
[_Evasively._] That reckoning is not for me
to make. [_Turns to the people._
You know that King Gustav is sure of help from Denmark. King
Frederick is his friend, and will never leave him in the
lurch—-—-
EINAR HUK.
But if the people were now to rise all over Norway’s
land?—if we all rose as one man, nobles and peasants
together?—Ay, Lady Inger Gyldenlöve, the time we have waited
for is surely come. We have but to rise now to drive the
strangers from the land.
THE PEASANTS.
Ay, out with the Danish sheriffs! Out with the foreign
masters! Out with the Councillors’ lackeys!
LADY INGER.
[_To herself._] Ah, there is metal in them; and yet, yet——!
BIÖRN.
[_To himself._] She is of two minds. [_To Elina._] What say
you now, Mistress Elina—have you not sinned in misjudging
your mother?
ELINA.
Biörn—if my eyes have lied to me, I could tear them out of
my head!
EINAR HUK.
See you not, my noble lady, King Gustav must be dealt with
first. Were _his_ power once gone, the Danes cannot long
hold this land——
LADY INGER.
And then?
EINAR HUK.
Then we shall be free. We shall have no more foreign
masters, and can choose ourselves a king, as the Swedes have
done before us.
LADY INGER.
[_With animation._] A king for ourselves! Are you thinking
of the Sture[13] stock?
EINAR HUK.
King Christiern and others after him have swept bare our
ancient houses. The best of our nobles are outlaws on the
mountain paths, if so be they still live. Nevertheless, it
might still be possible to find one or other shoot of the
old stems——
LADY INGER.
[_Hastily._] Enough, Einar Huk, enough! [_To herself._] Ah,
my dearest hope!
[_Turns to the_ PEASANTS _and_ RETAINERS.
I have warned you, now, as well as I can. I have told you
how great is the risk you run. But if you are fixed in your
purpose, ’twere folly in me to forbid what I have no power
to prevent.
EINAR HUK.
Then we have your leave to——?
LADY INGER.
You have your own firm will; take counsel with _that_. If it
be as you say, that you are daily harassed and oppressed——I
know but little of these matters. I will not know more! What
can I, a lonely woman—? Even if you were to plunder the
Banquet Hall—and there’s many a good weapon on the walls—you
are the masters at Östråt to-night. You must do as seems
good to you. Good-night!
[_Loud cries of joy from the multitude. Candles are
lighted; the_ RETAINERS _bring out weapons of
different kinds from the hall._
BIÖRN.
[_Seizes_ LADY INGER’S _hand as she is going._] Thanks, my
noble and high-souled mistress! I, that have known you from
childhood up—I have never doubted you.
LADY INGER.
Hush, Biörn—’tis a dangerous game I have ventured this
night. The others stake only their lives; but I, trust me, a
thousandfold more!
BIÖRN.
How mean you? Do you fear for your power and your favour
with——?
LADY INGER.
My power? O God in Heaven!
A RETAINER.
[_Comes from the hall with a large sword._]
See, here’s a real good wolf’s-tooth! With this will I flay
the blood-suckers’ lackeys!
EINAR HUK.
[_To another._] What is that you have found?
THE RETAINER.
The breastplate they call Herlof Hyttefad’s.
EINAR HUK.
’Tis too good for such as you. Look, here is the shaft of
Sten Sture’s[14] lance; hang the breastplate upon it, and we
shall have the noblest standard heart can desire.
FINN.
[_Comes from the door on the left, with a letter in his
hand, and goes towards_ LADY INGER.] I have sought you
through all the house——
LADY INGER.
What would you?
FINN.
[_Hands her the letter._] A messenger is come from
Trondhiem[15] with a letter for you.
LADY INGER.
Let me see! [_Opening the letter._] From Trondhiem? What can
it be? [_Runs through the letter._] O God! From him! and
here in Norway——
[_Reads on with strong emotion, while the men go on
bringing out arms from the hall._
LADY INGER.
[_To herself._] He is coming here. He is coming here
to-night!—Ay, then ’tis with our wits we must fight, not
with the sword.
EINAR HUK.
Enough, enough, good fellows; we are well armed now. Set we
forth now on our way!
LADY INGER.
[_With a sudden change of tone._] No man shall leave my
house to-night!
EINAR HUK.
But the wind is fair, noble lady; ’twill take us quickly up
the fiord, and——
LADY INGER.
It shall be as I have said.
EINAR HUK.
Are we to wait till to-morrow, then?
LADY INGER.
Till to-morrow, and longer still. No armed man shall go
forth from Östråt yet awhile.
[_Signs of displeasure among the crowd._
SOME OF THE PEASANTS.
We will go all the same, Lady Inger!
THE CRY SPREADS.
Ay, ay; we _will_ go!
LADY INGER.
[_Advancing a step towards them._] Who dares to move?
[_A silence. After a moment’s pause, she adds:_
I have thought for you. What do you common folk know of the
country’s needs? How dare you judge of such things? You must
e’en bear your oppressions and burdens yet awhile. Why
murmur at that, when you see that we, your leaders, are as
ill bested as you?——Take all the weapons back to the hall.
You shall know my further will hereafter. Go!
[_The_ RETAINERS _take back the arms, and the whole
crowd then withdraws by the door on the right._
ELINA.
[_Softly to_ BIÖRN.] Say you still that I have sinned in
misjudging—the Lady of Östråt?
LADY INGER.
[_Beckons to_ BIÖRN, _and says_.] Have a guest-chamber
ready.
BIÖRN.
It is well, Lady Inger!
LADY INGER.
And let the gate be open to whoever shall knock.
BIÖRN.
But——?
LADY INGER.
The gate open!
BIÖRN.
The gate open. [_Goes out to the right._
LADY INGER.
[_To_ ELINA, _who has already reached the door on the
left._] Stay here!——Elina—my child—I have something to say
to you alone.
ELINA.
I hear you.
LADY INGER.
Elina——you think evil of your mother.
ELINA.
I think, to my sorrow, what your deeds have forced me to
think.
LADY INGER.
And you answer as your bitter spirit bids you.
ELINA.