VIII.
That night he had a vivid dream. He dreamt that he was in a garden,where nothing but lilac grew--grew with a luxuriance he could not havebelieved possible, and on fantastic bushes: there were bushes likesteeples and bushes smaller than himself, big and little, broad andslender, but all were of lilac, and in flower--an extravagant profusionof white and purple blossoms. He gazed round him in delight, and tookan eager step forward; but, before he could reach the nearest bush, hesaw that it had been an illusion: the bush was stripped and bare, andthe rest were bare as well. "You're too late. It has all beengathered," he heard a voice say, and at this moment, he saw Ephie atthe end of a long alley of bushes, coming towards him, her arms full oflilac. She smiled and nodded to him over it, and he heard her laugh,but when she was half-way down the path, he discovered his mistake: itwas not Ephie but Louise. She came slowly forward, her laden armsoutstretched, and he would have given his life to be able to advanceand to take what she offered him; but he could not stir, could not lifthand or foot, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Her stepsgrew more hesitating, she seemed hardly to move; and then, just as shereached the spot where he stood, he found that it was not she afterall, but Madeleine, who laughed at his disappointment and said: "I'mnot offended, remember!"--The revulsion of feeling was too great; heturned away, without taking the flowers she held out to him--and awoke.
This dream was present to him all the morning, like a melody thathaunts and recalls. But he worked more laboriously than usual; for hewas aggrieved with himself for having idled away the previousafternoon, and then, too, Furst's playing had made a profoundimpression on him. In vigorous imitation, he sat down to the pianoagain, after a hasty dinner snatched in the neighbourhood; but as hewas only playing scales, he propped open before him a little volume ofGoethe's poems, which Johanna had lent him, and suiting his scales tothe metre of the lines, read through one after another of the poems heliked best. At a particular favourite, he stopped playing and held thebook in both hands.
He had hardly begun anew when the door of his room was unceremoniouslyopened, and Dove entered, in the jocose way he adopted when in a rosymood. Maurice made a movement to conceal his book, merely in order toavoid the explanation he new must follow; but was too late; Dove hadespied it. He did not belie himself on this occasion; he was extremelyastonished to find Maurice "still at it," but much more so to see abook open before him; and he vented his surprise loudly and wordily.
"Liszt used to read the newspaper," said Maurice, for the sake ofsaying something. He had swung round in the piano-chair, and he yawnedas he spoke, without attempting to disguise it.
"Why, yes, of course, why not?" agreed Dove cordially, afraid lest hehad seemed discouraging. "Why not, indeed? For those who can do it. Iwish I could. But will you believe me, Guest"--here he seated himself,and settled into an attitude for talking, one hand inserted between hiscrossed knees--"will you believe me, when I say I find it a difficultbusiness to read at all?--at any time. I find it too stimulating, tooANREGEND, don't you know? I assure you, for weeks now, I have beentrying to read PAST AND PRESENT, and have not yet got beyond the firstpage. It gives one so much to think about, opens up so many new ideas,that I stop myself and say: 'Old fellow, that must be digested.' This,I see, is poetry"--he ran quickly and disparagingly through Maurice'slittle volume, and laid it down again. "I don't care much for poetrymyself, or for novels either. There's so much in life worth knowingthat is true, or of some use to one; and besides, as we all know, factis stranger than fiction."
They spoke also of Furst's performance the evening before, and Dovegave it its due, although he could not conceal his opinion that Furst'sstar would ultimately pale before that of a new-comer to the town, alate addition to the list of Schwarz's pupils, whom he, Dove, had been"putting up to things a bit." This was a "Manchester man" and formerpupil of Halle's, and it would certainly not be long before he set theplace in a stir. Dove had just come from his lodgings, where he hadbeen permitted to sit and hear him practise finger-exercises.
"A touch like velvet," declared Dove. "And a stretch!--I have neverseen anything like it. He spans a tenth, nay, an eleventh, more easilythan we do an octave."
The object of Dove's visit was, it transpired, to propose that Mauriceshould accompany him that evening to the theatre, where DIE WALKURE wasto be performed; and as, on this day, Dove had reasons for seeing theworld through rose-coloured glasses, he suggested, out of the fulnessof his heart, that they should also invite Madeleine to join them.Maurice was nothing loath to have the meeting with her over, and so,though it was not quite three o'clock, they went together to theMOZARTSTRASSE.
They found Madeleine before her writing-table, which was strewn withclosely written sheets. This was mail-day for America, she explained,and begged the young men to excuse her finishing an important letter toan American journalist, with whom she had once "chummed up" on a tripto Italy.
"One never knows when these people may be of use to one," she wasaccustomed to say.
Having addressed and stamped the envelope, and tossed it to the others,she rose and gave a hand to each. At Maurice, she smiled in asignificant way.
"You should have stayed, my son. Some one came, after all."
Maurice laid an imploring finger on his lips, but Dove had seized theopportunity of glancing at his cravat in the mirror, and did not seemto hear.
She agreed willingly to their plan of going to the theatre; she hadthought of it herself; then, a girl she knew had asked her to come tohear her play in ENSEMBLESPIEL.
"However, I will let that slip. Schelper and Moran-Olden are to sing;it will be a fine performance. I suppose some one is to be there," shesaid laughingly to Dove, "or you would not be of the party."
But Dove only smiled and looked sly.
Without delay, Madeleine began to detail to Maurice, the leadingmotives on which the WALKURE was built up; and Dove, having hummed,strummed and whistled all those he knew by heart, settled down to adiscourse on the legitimacy and development of the motive, andespecially in how far it was to be considered a purely intellectualimplement. He spoke with the utmost good-nature, and was so unconsciousof being a bore that it was impossible to take him amiss. Madeleine,however, could not resist, from time to time, throwing in a "Really!""How extraordinary!" "You don't say so!" among his abstruse remarks.But her sarcasm was lost on Dove; and even if he had noticed it, hewould only have smiled, unhit, being too sensible and good-humouredeasily to take offence.
It was always a mystery to his friends where Dove got his information;he was never seen to read, and there was little theorising about art,little but the practical knowledge of it, in the circles to which hebelonged. But just as he went about picking up small items of gossip,so he also gathered in stray scraps of thought and information, andbeing by nature endowed with an excellent memory, he let nothing thathe had once heard escape him. He had, besides, the talker's gift ofneatly stringing together these tags he had pulled off other people, ofconnecting them, and giving them a varnish of originality.
"By no means a fool," Madeleine was in the habit of saying of him. "Hewould be easier to deal with if he were."
Here, on the leading motive as handled by Wagner and Wagner'sforerunners, he had an unwritten treatise ripe in his brain. But he hadonly just compared the individual motives to the lettered ribbons thatissue from the mouths of the figures in medieval pictures, and began tohint at the IDEE FIXE of Berlioz, when he was interrupted by a knock atthe door.
"HEREIN!" cried Madeleine in her clear voice; and at the sight of theperson who opened the door, Maurice involuntarily started up from hischair, and taking his stand behind it, held the back of it firmly withboth hands, in self-defence.
It was Louise.
On seeing the two young men, she hesitated, and, with the door-handlestill in her hand, smiled a faint questioning smile at Madeleine,raising her eyebrows and showing a thin line of white between her lips.
"May I come in?" she asked, with her head a
little on one side.
"Why, of course you know you may," said Madeleine with some asperity.
And so Louise entered, and came forward to the table at which they hadbeen sitting; but before anything further could be said, she raised herarms to catch up a piece of hair which had fallen loose on her neck.The young men were standing, waiting to greet her, Maurice still behindhis chair; but she did not hurry on their account, or "just on theiraccount did not hurry," as Madeleine mentally remarked.
Both watched Louise, and followed her movements. To their eyes, sheappeared to be very simply dressed; it was only Madeleine whoappreciated the cost and care of this seeming simplicity. She wore aplain, close-fitting black dress, of a smooth, shiny stuff, whichobeyed and emphasised the lines and outlines of her body; and, as shestood, with her arms upraised, composedly aware of being observed, theycould see the line of her side rising and falling with the rise andfall of each breath. Otherwise, she wore a large black hat, withfeathers and an overhanging brim, which threw shadows on her face, andmade her eyes seem darker than ever.
Letting her arms drop with a sigh of relief, she shook hands with Dove,and Dove--to Madeleine's diversion and Maurice's intensedisgust--introduced Maurice to her as his friend. She looked full atthe latter, and held out her hand; but before he could take it, shewithdrew it again, and put both it and her left hand behind her back.
"No, no," she said. "I mustn't shake hands with you to-day. Today isFriday. And to give one's hand for the first time on a Friday wouldbring bad luck--to you, if not to me."
She was serious, but both the others laughed, and Maurice, having lethis outstretched hand fall, coloured, and smiled rather foolishly. Shedid not seem to notice his discomfiture; turning to Madeleine, shebegan to speak of a piece of music she wished to borrow; and thenMaurice had a chance of observing her at his ease, and of listening toher voice, in which he heard all manner of impossible things. But whileMadeleine, with Dove's assistance, was looking through a pile of music,Louise came suddenly up to him and said: "You are not offended with me,are you?" She had a low voice, with a childish cadence in it, whichtouched him like a caress.
"Offended? I with you?" He meant to laugh, but his voice shook.
She stared at him, openly astonished, not only at his words, but alsoat the tone in which they were said; and the strange, fervent gaze benton her by this man whom she saw for the first time in her life,confused her and made her uneasy. Slowly and coldly she turned away,but Madeleine, who was charitably occupying Dove as long as she could,did not take any notice of her. And as the young man continued to stareat her, she looked out of the window at the lowering grey sky, andsaid, with a shudder: "What a day for June!"
All eyes followed hers, Maurice's with the rest; but almost instantlyhe brought them back again to her face.
"Louise is a true Southerner," said Madeleine; "and is wretched ifthere's a cloud in the sky."
Louise smiled, and he saw her strong white teeth. "It's not quite asbad as that," she said; and then, although herself not clear why sheshould have answered these searching eyes, she added, looking atMaurice: "I come from Australia."
If she had said she was a visitant from another world, Maurice wouldnot, at the moment, have felt much surprise; but on hearing the name ofthis distant land, on which he would probably never set foot, a senseof desolation overcame him. He realised anew, with a pang, what anutter stranger he was to her; of her past life, her home, her country,he knew and could know nothing.
"That is very far away," he said, speaking out of this feeling, andthen was vexed with himself for having done so. His words soundedfoolish as they lingered on in the stillness that followed them, andwould, he believed, lay him open to Madeleine's ridicule. But he hadnot much time in which to repent of them; the music had been found, andshe was going again. He heard her refuse an invitation to stay: she hadan engagement at half-past four. And now Dove, who, throughout, hadkept in the background, looked at his watch and took up his hat: he hadpreviously offered, unopposed, to do the long wait outside the theatre,which was necessary when one had no tickets, and now it was time to go.But when Louise heard the word theatre, she laid a slim, ungloved handon Dove's arm.
"The very thing for such a night!"
They all said "AUF WIEDERSEHEN!" to one another; she did not offer toshake hands again, and Maurice nursed a faint hope that it was on hisaccount. He opened the window, leant out, and watched them, until theywent round the corner of the street.
Madeleine smiled shrewdly behind his back, but when he turned, she wasgrave. She did not make any reference to what had passed, nor did she,as he feared she would, put questions to him: instead, she showed him asong of Krafft's, and asked him to play the accompaniment for her. Hegratefully consented, without knowing what he was undertaking. For thesong, a setting of a poem by Lenau, was nominally in C sharp minor; butit was black with accidentals, and passed through many keys before itcame to a close in D flat major. Besides this, the right hand had muchhard passage-work in quaint scales and broken octaves, to a syncopatedbass of chords that were adapted to the stretch of no ordinary hand.
"LIEBLOS UND OHNE GOTT AUF EINER HAIDE," sang Madeleine on the high Fsharp; but Maurice, having collected neither his wits nor his fingers,began blunderingly, could not right himself, and after scramblingthrough a few bars, came to a dead stop, and let his hands fall fromthe keys.
"Not to-day, Madeleine."
She laughed good-naturedly. "Very well--not to-day. One shouldn't askyou to believe to-day that DIE GANZE WELT IST ZUM VERZWEIFELN TRAURIG."
While she made tea, he returned to the window, where he stood with hishands in his pockets, lost in thought. He told himself once more whathe found it impossible to believe: that he was going to see Louiseagain in a few hours; and not only to see her, but to speak to her, tobe at her side. And when his jubilation at this had subsided, he wentover in memory all that had just taken place. His first impression, hecould afford now to admit it, had been almost one of disappointment:that came from having dreamed so long of a shadowy being, whom he hadcalled by her name, that the real she was a stranger to him. Everythingabout her had been different from what he had expected--her voice, hersmile, her gestures--and in the first moments of their meeting, he hadbeen chill with fear, lest--lest ... even yet he did not venture tothink out the thought. But this first sensation of strangeness over, hehad found her more charming, more desirable, than even he had hoped;and what almost wrung a cry of pleasure from him as he remembered it,was that not the smallest trifle--no touch of coquetry, no insincerelyspoken word--had marred the perfect impression of the whole. To knowher, to stand before her, he recognised it now, gave the lie to falseslander and report. Hardest of all, however, was it to grasp that themeeting had actually come to pass and was over: it had been soordinary, so everyday, the most natural thing in the world; there hadbeen no blast of trumpets, nor had any occult sympathy warned her thatshe was in the presence of one who had trembled for weeks at the ideaof this moment and again he leaned forward and gazed at the spot in thestreet, where she had disappeared from sight. He was filled with envyof Dove--this was the latter's reward for his unfailing readiness tooblige others--and in fancy he saw Dove walking street after street ather side.
In reality, the two parted from each other shortly after turning thefirst corner.
On any other day, Dove would have been still more prompt to take leaveof his companion; but, on this particular one, he was in the mood to bea little reckless. In the morning, he had received, with a delightfulshock, his first letter from Ephie, a very frank, warmly written note,in which she relied on his great kindness to secure her, WITHOUTFAIL--these words were deeply underscored--two places in the PARQUET ofthe theatre, for that evening's performance. Not the letter alone, butalso its confiding tone, and the reliance it placed in him, had touchedDove to a deep pleasure; he had been one of the first to arrive at thebox-office that morning, and, although he had not ventured, unasked, totake himself a seat beside the sisters, he
was now living in theanticipation of promenading the FOYER with them in the intervalsbetween the acts, and of afterwards escorting them home.
On leaving Louise he made for the theatre with a swinging stride--hadhe been in the country, stick in hand, he would have slashed off theheads of innumerable green and flowering things. As it was, hewhistled--an unusual thing for him to do in the street--then assumedthe air of a man hard pressed for time. Gradually the passers-by beganto look at him with the right amount of attention; he jostled, as if byaccident, one or two of those who were unobservant, then apologised forhis hurry. It was not pleasurable anticipation alone that wasresponsible for Dove's state of mind, and for the heightening andradiation of his self-consciousness. In offering to go early to thetheatre, and to stand at the doors for at least three-quarters of anhour, in order that the others, coming considerably later might stillhave a chance of gaining their favourite seats: in doing this, Dove wasnot actuated by a wholly unselfish motive, but by the more complicatedone, which, consciously or unconsciously, was present beneath all thefriendly cares and attentions he bestowed on people. He was never morecontent with himself, and with the world at large, than when he feltthat he was essential to the comfort and well-being of some of hisfellow-mortals; than when he, so to speak, had a finger in the pie oftheir existence. It engendered a sense of importance, gave life fulnessand variety; and this far outweighed the trifling inconveniences suchwelldoing implied. Indeed, he throve on them. For, in his mild way,Dove had a touch of Caesarean mania--of a lust for power.
Left to herself, Louise Dufrayer walked slowly home to her room in theBRUDERSTRASSE, but only to throw a hasty look round. It was just as shehad expected: although it was long past the appointed time, he was notthere. At a flower-shop in a big adjoining street, she bought a bunchof many-coloured roses, and with these in her hands, went straight towhere Schilsky lived.
Mounting to the third floor of the house in the TALSTRASSE, she opened,without ceremony, the door of his room, which gave direct on thelanding; but so stealthily that the young man, who was sitting with hisback to the door, did not hear her enter. Before he could turn, she hadsprung forward, her arms were round his neck, and the roses under hisnose. He drew his face away from their damp fragrance, but did not lookup, and, without removing his cigarette, asked in a tone of extreme badtemper: "What are you doing here, Lulu? What nonsense is this? ForGod's sake, shut the door!"
She ruffled his hair with her lips. "You didn't come. And the day hasseemed so long."
He tried to free himself, putting the roses aside with one hand, while,with his cigarette, he pointed to the sheets of music-paper that laybefore him. "For a very good reason. I've had no time."
She went back and closed the door; and then, sitting down on his knee,unpinned her big hat, and threw it and the roses on the bed. He put hisarm round her to steady her, and as soon as he held her to him, hisill-temper was vanquished. He talked volubly of the instrumentation hewas busy with. But she, who could point out almost every fresh note heput on paper, saw plainly that he had not been at work for more than aquarter of an hour; and, in a miserable swell of doubt and jealousy,such as she could never subdue, she asked:
"Were you practising as well?"
He took no notice of these words, and she did not trust herself to saymore, until, with his free hand, he began jotting again, making notesthat were no bigger than pin-heads. Then she laid her hand on his. "Ihaven't seen you all day."
But he was too engrossed to listen. "Look here," he said pointing to athick-sown bar. "That gave me the deuce of a bother. While here "--andnow he explained to her, in detail, the properties of the tenor-tuba inB, and the bass-tuba in F, and the use to which he intended to putthese instruments. She heard him with lowered eyes, lightly caressingthe back of his hand with her finger-tips. But when he ceased speaking,she rubbed her cheek against his.
"It is enough for to-day. Lulu has been lonely."
Not one of his thoughts was with her, she saw that, as he answered: "Imust get this finished."
"To-night?"
"If I can. You know well enough, Lulu, when I'm in the swing----"
"Yes, yes, I know. If only it wouldn't always come, just when I wantyou most."
Her face lost its brightness; she rose from his knee and roamed aboutthe room, watched from the wall by her pictured self.
"But is there ever a moment in the day when you don't want me? You arenever satisfied." He spoke abstractedly, without interest in the answershe might make, and, relieved of her weight, leant forward again, whilehis fingers played some notes on the table. But when she began to lether hands stray over the loose papers and other articles thatencumbered chairs, piano and washstand, he raised his head and watchedher with a sharp eye.
"For goodness' sake, let those things alone, can't you?" he said afterhe had borne her fidgeting for some time.
"You have no secrets from me, I suppose?" She said it with hertenderest smile, but he scowled so darkly in reply that she went overto him again, to touch him with her hand. Standing behind him, with herfingers in his hair, she said: "Just to-day I wanted you so much. Thismorning I was so depressed that I could have killed myself."
He turned his head, to give her a significant glance.
"Good reason for the blues, Lulu. I warned you. You want too much ofeverything. And can't expect to escape a KATER."
"Too much?" she echoed, quick to resent his words. "Does it seem so toyou? Would days and days of happiness be too much after we have beenseparated for a week?--after Wednesday night?--after what you said tome yesterday?"
"Yesterday I was in the devil of a temper. Why rake up old scores? Nowgo home. Or at least keep quiet, and let me get something done."
He shook his head free of her caressing hand, and, worse still,scratched the place where it had lain. She stood irresolute, notventuring to touch him again, looking hungrily at him. Her eyes fell onthe piece of neck, smooth, lightly browned, that showed between hishair and the low collar; and, in an uncontrollable rush of feeling, shestooped and kissed it. As he accepted the caress, without demur, shesaid: "I thought of going to the theatre to-night, dear."
He was pleased and showed it. "That's right--it's just what you need tocheer you up."
"But I want you to come, too."
He struck the table with his fist. "Good God, can't you get it intoyour head that I want to work?"
She laughed, with ready bitterness. "I should think I could. That'snothing new. You are always busy when I ask you to do anything. Youhave time for everything and every one but me. If this were somethingyou yourself wanted to do to-night, neither your work nor anything elsewould stand in the way of it; but my wishes can always be ignored. Haveyou forgotten already that I only came home the day before yesterday?"
He looked sullen. "Now don't make a scene, Lulu. It doesn't do a whitof good."
"A scene!" she cried, seizing on his words. "Whenever I open my lipsnow, you call it a scene. Tell me what I have done, Eugen! Why do youtreat me like this? Are you beginning to care less for me? The firstevening, the very first, I get home, you won't stay with me--youhaven't even kept that evening free for me--and when I ask you aboutit, and try to get at the truth--oh, do you remember all the cruelthings you said to me yesterday? I shall never forget them as long as Ilive. And now, when I ask you to come out with me--it is such a littlething-oh, I can't sit at home this evening, Eugen, I can't do it! Ifyou really loved me, you would understand."
She flung herself across the bed and sobbed despairingly. Schilsky, whohad again made believe during this outburst to be absorbed in his work,cast a look of mingled anger and discomfort at the prostrate figure,and for some few moments, succeeded in continuing his occupation with ashow of indifference; but as, in place of abating, her sobs grew moreheart-rending, his own face began to twitch, and finally he droppedpencil and cigarette, and with a loud expression of annoyance went overto the bed.
"Lulu," he said persuasively. "Come, Lulu," and bending over her, helai
d his hands on her shoulders and tried to force her to rise. Sheresisted him with all her might, but he was the stronger, and presentlyhe had her on her feet, where, with her head on his shoulder, she weptout the rest of her tears. He held her to him, and although his faceabove her was still dark, did what he could to soothe her. He couldnever bear, to see or to hear a woman cry, and this loud passionateweeping, so careless of anything but itself, racked his nerves, andfilled him with an uneasy wrath against invisible powers.
"Don't cry, darling, don't cry!" he said again and again. Gradually shegrew calmer, and he, too, was still; but when her sobs were hushed, andshe was clinging to him in silence, he put his hands on her shouldersand held her back from him, that he might look at her. His face wore astubborn expression, which she knew, and which made him appear yearsolder than he was.
"Now listen to me, Lulu," he said. "When you behave in this way again,you won't see me afterwards for a week--I promise you that, and youknow I keep my word. Instead of being glad that I am in the right moodand can get something done, you come here--which you know I haverepeatedly forbidden you to do--and make a fool of yourself like this.I have explained everything to you. I could not possibly stay onWednesday night--why didn't you time your arrival better? But it's justlike you. You would throw the whole of one's future into the balancefor the sake of a whim. Yesterday I was in a beast of a temper--I'veadmitted it. But that was made all right last night; and no one but youwould drag it up again."
He spoke with a kind of dogged restraint, which only sometimes gaveway, when the injustice she was guilty of forced itself upon him. "Now,like a good girl, go home--go to the theatre and enjoy yourself. Idon't mind you being happy without me. At least, go!--under anycircumstances you ought not to be here. How often have I told youthat!" His moderation swept over into the feverish irritation she knewso well how to kindle in him, and his lisp became so marked that he wasalmost unintelligible. "You won't have a rag of reputation left."
"If I don't care, why should you?" She felt for his hand. But he turnedhis back. "I won't have it, I tell you. You know what the studentunderneath said the last time he met you on the stair."
She pressed her handkerchief to her lips to keep from bursting anewinto sobs, and there was a brief silence--he stood at the window,gazing savagely at the opposite house-wall--before she said: "Don'tspeak to me like that. I'm going--now--this moment. I will never do itagain--never again."
As he only mumbled disbelief at this, she put her arms round his neck,and raised her tear-stained face to his: her eyes were blurred andsunken with crying, and her lips were white. He knew every line of herface by heart; he had known it in so many moods, and under so manyconditions, that he was not as sensitive to its influence as he hadonce been; and he stood unwilling, with his hands in his pockets, whileshe clung to him and let him feel her weight. But he was very fond ofher, and, as she continued mutely to implore forgiveness--she, Lulu,his Lulu, whom every one envied him--his hasty anger once moresubsided; he put his arms round her and kissed her. She nestled inagainst him, over-happy at his softening, and for some moments theystood like this, in the absolute physical agreement that alwaysovercame their differences. In his arms, with her head on his shoulder,she smoothed back his hair; and while she gazed, with adoring eyes, atthis face that constituted her world, she murmured words of endearment;and all the unsatisfactory day was annulled by these few moments ofperfect harmony.
It was he who loosened his grasp. "Now, it's all right, isn't it? Nomore tears. But you really must be off, or you'll be late."
"Yes. And you?"
He had taken up his violin and was tuning it, preparatory to playinghimself back into the mood she had dissipated. He ran his fingers upand down, tried flageolets, and slashed chords across the strings.
But when she had sponged her face and pinned on her hat, he said, inresponse to her beseeching eyes, which, as so often before, made thegranting of this one request, a touchstone of his love for her: "Lookhere, Lulu, if I possibly can, I'll drop in at the end of the firstact. Look out for me then, in the FOYER."
And with this, she was forced to be content.
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