The hand of Petrarch, and other stories

Front matter

Bs Seed ae

REFERENCE LIBRARY OF HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

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Contents

THE Hanp oF PETRARCH . - : ‘ I WINTER IsLAND : ‘ : - : 49 Our AcTREss : : ; ; : “99 CrepiT aT Dunstan’s ; 7 : : 157 THE PENGUIN ; : ‘ we 2Os THE CHANZA . ; : : - : 259

A Roman CaBMAN A : ‘ : » 299

; ae , , wn Af.

II

Srx weeks later Messer Enricocame to himself, and was informed by Marcello, his faithful servant, that he had been desperately ill of a fever, wavering between life and death. When he learned the duration of his illness, his mind reverted at once to the vanishing point, and he brooded, in silence, upon the insupportable sorrow. An hour afterward he roused himself to ask, abruptly, ifnothing in all these days and weeks had come from Arqua. Was there no letter? no message? In anxiety that he could not comprehend, his attendant, with a negative sign, entreated him to sleep. Not until his convalescence was it explained tohim that this question, many times repeated, had been the haunting theme of his delirium.

It haunted him still, though he was careful not to betray himself. Had nothing come from Arqua? No—nothing, nothing. Yet something would come, surely. To that hope he clung with obstinate persistence. Had he not his master’s word for it? Would not that hold good, even though the master were in his grave? :

The cool, bright days of autumn restored him to his little world. He was a well man, now, he said. But others could perceive, though he did not, the ineffaceable signs of his long illness; in its course he had passed from vigor to old age. Health and strength might still be his, yet with a difference; it was clear that he must refrain from overtaxing them. Of this limitation, however, he seemed quite unconscious, when he walked and talked among his neighbors, planning a little jour- “ ney that should give him necessary change to * set the seal upon his recovery —a journey to Padua and Venice, as he took care to state. Thus, by slow degrees, he warned them of his departure. And thus they heard, one day, without surprise, the news that he was gone.

Disregarding all advice to the contrary, he set forth entirely alone. But though his steps turned toward the east, neither to Padua nor Venice did he direct them. His goal of pilgrimage, so cautiously defended from cold indifference or idle jest, was Arqua only — Arqua, the simple mountain village — Arqua -Petrarca, coupled forevermore with the dead master’s name. Journeying by easy stages, he turned at Este from the Paduan highway, and struck off into the hills. Through the haze of a fine October afternoon, he climbed the last slope, over a rough road that ended in a group of houses irregularly placed about the open square, dusty and grass-grown, which formed the nucleus of the little town. Atone side stood the inn, denoted only by a withered branch above its door; and across the farther end stretched the long, low wall of a church, severe in line, without adornment. From its tower the call to vespers rang insistently, as if to hasten the steps of certain loiterers drawn tardily to the office; but that summons was not sharp enough; for while the stranger paused to look about him, a beadle enforced it sternly, driving the stragglers in like sheep. Messer Enrico was moved piously to follow them. But,as he crossed the square, his purpose changed; he stopped with a cry, kneeling then and there in the dust, at sight of the line carved upon a quaint monument which stood near the church-door in the shadow of the wall.

Frigida Franctsct lapis hic tegit ossa Petrarce! This, then, was the master’s tomb! This rude sarcophagus of red marble, raised upon four short columns above the level of vulgar life, to dignify the barren place and beits glory and its ornament till time should cease and earthly honor sweep into oblivion! ‘The poor townsmen and their parish officer had passed it by, carelessly; they dispersed as they assembled, with slow indifference, while the stranger watched them from his window at the inn, whither he had turned for lodging. This, though the best which the town afforded, was of so primitive a sort that the host mumbled profuse apologies for its deficiencies; but the window overlooked the square, and to Messer Enricoalltherest matterednothing. Through his eager questions the man soon gained confidence, and chattered freely. Oh, yes, he had seen the master sometimes —after death, had looked upon his face ; all the arts and essences of the East had been applied to its preservation, leaving it wonderfully lifelike. Everybody in the village, old or young, had followed the body to the tomb yonder; there had been garlands and banners, acolytes and incense, the cardinal himself—a splendid funeral, truly a nine days’ wonder! Had the signore visited the good man’s house? By leaning forward and turning the head to the right, one could see its tiled roof — there, higher up the hill, out of the town. It wasworth the climb, if only to get the prospect from its garden. - Messer Enrico smiled at these last words, as he toiled in the sunset up the stony path to the garden-gate, through which he looked, with a full heart, along a trim walk leading to the doorway of the house. The rusty chain rattled as he pulled it, stirring the bell within. And, at the sound, from a low ilex-tree in the garden a startled bird flew, twittering up into the clear sky. Then the house-door opened, anda man, white-haired, infirm, of very gentle bearing, came slowly down the walk to admit

the visitor at the first hint of his errand. « Welcome, signore, in my master’s name.

24 THe Hanp oF PETRARCH

Alas, that it should be too late for such a word from his own lips!”

“Tt is the grievous counterstroke of fortune; for [am one who loved him — Capra, Enrico Capra, the goldsmith of Bergamo. And thou wert of his household ?”’

‘“‘ His body-servant, Vitale, signore. It was I who found him in his armchair, sleeping, never to wake again. I remain for a time in charge of the place. Will it please the signore to comein?”’

His voice failed him. Silently, he led the way up an outer staircase, through the arched loggia,to the main floor of the house—a series of small rooms, opening one into another, bright and cheerful, with the comfortable air that is derived from daily use. There was the poet’schamber; here the chair in which he had fallen asleep; this was his library, and these closed cabinets contained the precious books, deeded long ago to Venice, but entrusted for delivery to his friend and patron, the Lord of Padua, who had placed his seal upon them all ; all, save one, that volume of Cicero, with which the master was occupied at the moment of his death. It still lay upon the floor, where

THe HaAnp oF PETRARCH 25 it had dropped from his lifeless hand. The old man indicated these things in a whispered word or two, while the stranger followed him with tear-dimmed eyes. Then they passed out together upon an iron balcony overhanging a wide, green valley, which opened toward the western plain. ‘Therewere vineyards and olive orchards upon all the slopes; above them, from the rocky heights stretching eastward, clumps of pine-trees stood out against the sky. Here, where the master loved to sit, they lingered, leaning upon the rail, while day’s colors deepened, and the lovely landscape grew lovelier in theafterglow. The bitterness of grief abated with these quiet influences, until speech no longer was impossible. Messer Enrico, producing his last letter from the poet, explained the nature of the bond to which it bore witness, and sought further evidence regarding it. To his discomfiture this proved inconclusive. It appeared that the master, shortly before his death, had burned in his brasier a heap of old papers; but what these were, and why he had chosen to destroy them, it was idle to conjecture. Of their import the servant could say nothing; and the sealed cabinets, he was sure, contained only books. Were there no other papers, then? None, so far as he knew. If any such had escaped the brasier’s coals, they must be hidden away in some secret place, unknown to old Vitale, whose mind, at the thought, wandered off into wild speculation. The letter, at which he looked long and teriderly, was unquestionably in his master’s character, and it expressed a solemn promise; he took the will for the deed, therefore, stubbornly maintaining that the master was a man of his word. How and where, then, had he concealed the manuscript? Upon that question he dwelt so resolutely, as almost to make his companion forget the long delay which had led toreasonable doubt. They talked on through the twilight, while the mist rose from the valley in strange, fantastic shapes that promoted a cloud of superstitious fancies, befitting time and place.

“Look yonder!’ whispered the servitor; ‘“‘at that hooded figure, bending low over the garden. I could swear that it is my master’s. See! it retreats and comes again. What if the paper were buried there? Nay, now it is gone!”’

THe Hanp or PetTrarcu 27

“It is but vapor,” sighed the goldsmith. “Thy master’s body lies with the honored dead and may not walk again until the last hour. God rest his soul! ”’

«« Signore, the dead are with us always. My master was a just man—a true one. If he has failed to keep his word, we shall know it from his own lips. Trust me, he will not rest in his grave.”

Messer Enrico shivered, and drew his robe tighter round him. “It is cold,’ he murmured. “I must find my bed at the inn, and sleep. To-morrow, we will speak further of this. Consider it well, my good Vitale, and search the house again, that I may be satisfied.”’

«Ay, but where?”’ the old man asked, as they came down together. “If the thing be here, to find the hiding-place would puzzle the wise woman herself. Ah! that is not so bad athought! I counsel the signore to make demand of her.”’

«The wise woman?” repeated Messer Enrico, lightly.

“Of Abano, yes, signore,” answered the servant, dropping in his speech to an impressive whisper; “ Giralda, of the burning lake —famous for her skill through all the country round. The secrets of the heart are revealed to her; ay, of the soul likewise! She will unfold this, if any human being can. Go to her, talk with her, signore.”

The goldsmith smiled incredulously. “Nay, not I!” he said. «‘ Let her keep her sorceries to herself. I deal not with things of darkness.”

Still old Vitale was not to be shaken in his faith. The new idea had fastened upon him. There lay the solution of the mystery ; it was his parting word, upon which he dwelt earnestly when the garden-gate closed between them.

Dismissing the thought of such guidance as grotesque and irrational, Messer Enrico returned to the inn for the repose he sorely needed. But his night was atroubled one. In his dreams he pursued always the same search, which proved always unavailing, now in the house, now in the garden, attended everywhere by hovering phantoms of the mist that mocked his vain endeavor.

Toward morning, he slept for a while undisturbed; till the sleependedina dream more disquieting thanall therest. ‘Themasterstood before him, gowned and hooded as in life, but pale as death, with a look of anguish in his staring eyes; he seemed eager to speak; the white lips parted in the effort, yet no word _ came; at last, receding slowly,as if reluctantly drawn away by a power irresistible, the figure stretched forth its hand, beckoned, and was gone. “Stay!” the sleeper shouted; and woke, alone, at the window, whither he had dragged himself unconsciously. The moonlight gleamed upon the little square, the marble tomb beyond it; but there was no sign of life; all lay silent, motionless, deserted. Trembling with cold, he crept back to bed, where for the time his trouble ceased. “It was all a dream !”’ he murmured, when he woke in broad day.

For three days more he remained at Arqua, revisiting the house, urging its occupant on to investigation which brought no result. Always there was the same answer, the same suggestion of the one remedy possible in such a case. “ If thesignore would but consult the wise woman of Abano! The town is close at hand; and there, too, are waters, wondrous in their healing property, of which it might be well to drink a little. For, by the signore’s leave, his health appears to be none of the best.”’

None of the best, indeed! For, though the signore, guarding his secret zealously, strove, throughout the day, with enforced cheerfulness to avert suspicion, each night the troubled dream returned. The dead master, tormented by the thought he could not speak, haunted his bedside, to renew the mute appeal and depart with hand outstretched imploringly. The dreadful presence grew more and more distressing, until the knowledge of what night would bring became an hourly torture. At the close of the third day he could bear it no longer, and, ordering his horse, prepared for flight.

But the mysterious change in him had not escaped the shrewd padrone of the inn.

«The signore will sleep at Este, then,” he said; ‘since his health returns but slowly, and the hour is late.”’

““No, not at Este. I go north to Abano. They say there is virtue in its healing waters.”

“Undoubtedly. The signore has been well advised.”’

Messer Enrico eyed the man gravely. “Tell me,” he demanded; « dost thou know aught of the wise woman there, at Abano?”’

««Ofasurety,signore. Whodoesnot? Her skill passes belief, and her arts are manifold. It was she who cured my brother of the fever. Had a man a devil in him, she would cast it out. Ay, more than that! All the past is known to her, and she foretells the future. She can interpret dreams.”

The goldsmith started ; but a look reassured him. How should the man know?

«¢T thank you,” he said, as he rode off. «I will confide in her, if the waters fail me.”

«« May you be spared the need, signore, and Heaven go with you!”

So, at the first turn of the road, Messer Enrico was lost in the twilight, to be seen no more at Arqua and soon forgotten. Alighting in Abano, hefoundahearty welcome, warmth, cheerfulness, and the best of provision for his comfort. Strangers, who came to drink the waters, were not infrequent there, and his arrival occasionednoremark. The mere change

R2 THe Hanp oF PETRARCH of scene was an encouragement. The poor, hunted victim took heart at the thought that he had returned to the land of men from the land of fearful dreams.

Inthis mood he composed himself to sleep, only to find all comfort spirited away. His evil destiny, defying his precautionary measures, had followed him over the hills and would not be shaken off. He slept, but the vision of the master rose before him with the old imploring look, the gesture of entreaty. Night after night, at Abano as at Arqua, the haunting terror repeated itself, and made life miserable. He could think of nothing else. And when, at last, driven half mad by the failure of simpler remedies, he sought the wise woman, it was not to demand the hiding-place of the lost manuscript, — the treasure which never had been his, — but only to be delivered from the fiend that had assumed the shape dearer to him than all others.

A mile from the town he left the level road, to follow a lonely path winding up through the woods toward a deep cleft in the hills. Around him, between the tree-trunks, volcanic rocks, seamed and scarred on their rough sides, rose grimly, closing in the landscape. As the growth became denser, though the sun was still high, its rays were cut off. Upon the dim forest a strange, unearthly stillness settled down. There was no rustling of leaves, no chirruping of birds or insects, no movement, no sign of life other than his own. He went on, startled by the hollow sound of his own footsteps, fearful lest the trembling earth should give way and engulf him suddenly; until the path, plunging lower into the ravine, led him to a spring which bubbled darkly over decaying leaves. He stooped to drink. But thewater, warm and brackish, enveloped him, as he stirred it, in a cloud of noisome vapor. In a moment more he came to a small lake, overhung with mist, through whichthe calm surface rippled here and there into pale, phosphorescent gleams. Dark rocks and darker pine-trees, towering high, encircled it; its level seemed lower than the earth, as if the dismal place lay at the very heart of the Euganean Hills.

As the seeker stepped out upon the shore, a shrill cry, breaking the silence, echoed from the rocks; then reéchoed from some distant pointin answerto thecall. Asmall boysprang from the underbrush, and, stopping at a safe distance, began to question him.

«Your name and titles, signore. Why do you come here?”’

«¢ Enrico Capra, the goldsmith of Bergamo. They have sent me to the wise woman — Giralda, of the burning lake, if I mistake not.”

“‘ Giralda, yes, signore. This is the place. See!” Speaking, he tossed a pebble into the water. A flame flashed up for an instant, to die away in rings of fire. ‘It is the sign, signore. But there is no one else? The signore comes alone ?”’

“Quite alone.”

The boy darted on into the wood; then stopped, and looking back over his shoulder, with an uncouth gesture directed the stranger to follow. Messer Enrico silently obeyed him; and in this order they proceeded along the water’s edge, halfway round the lake, to a small clearing between its margin and the mountain-side. In the midst of this open space there burned whatseemeda fire; but the flame leaped fitfully from the earth, leaving no ashes,

Tue Hanp or PetTrarcu 35 no trace of any fuel to sustain it. By the flickering light a rude dwelling, hollowed out of the cliff, could be discerned ; and from its doorway, as the two approached, a woman stepped forward into the clearer glow, which revealed her tall, straight figure, clad in a flowing Eastern garment. Her face, still young, was strong, of savage beauty. She challenged them with a stern look in her piercing eyes.

“Who comes with thee, Orso? What does this man seek?”’

«« Peace and rest!” replied the goldsmith, advancing toward thelight. “A demon vexes all my dreams. Release me, if this art of thine can do so much, and I will never count the cost. For such relief I would pay double.”

«« Put up the purse, signore, until the cause is known tome. The poor skill I have availeth nothing where a crime has been committed — ”’ |

<«« Nocrime,no crime! The demon comes to me in friendly guise — as one who longs to speak, yet cannot find the means.”

The woman’s face relaxed. “There, indeed, my art may be of service,” she said, gently. “ Orso, to thy stone, and sleep! Follow me, signore; I must know with what I have to deal. Do not fear, speak freely.” Behind the fire, a large, smooth fragment of basaltic rock lay level with the earth. Upon its polished surface the boy, Orso, stretched himself out to sleep, as the sorceress commanded. Passing him by, she conducted Messer Enrico to her cavelike chamber in the cliff. From the low roof a lamp swung in chains; and in the narrow circle of its light stood a rough bench, beside a table with wickered flasks and wine-cups. Filling one of these, she bade the goldsmith drink. The draught of native wine composed his thoughts, and he imparted them without reserve. She listened attentively to his story, asking no questions, desiring only the master’s letter, over which she pondered long. Then, urging strict silence, with her finger on her lips, she led the seeker back into the open air, where the boy still lay by the fire, sleeping now profoundly. She called to him without effect; shook him roughly, but still he did not stir. Nor did he wake when, raising him toa sitting posture, she knelt at his side, and, supporting him thus, placed the letter in his hand. His fingers closed upon the paper, he breathed heavily ; then sank to rest with his head upon her shoulder.

“ Orso!’”’ she called aloud, in a tone of command. ‘‘ Orso! Wake, and hear me! ”’

The boy stirred in his sleep, and trembled. Straining every muscle, he bent forward to stare at the stone below with fixed, wide-open eyes. She held him there in a strong, controlling grasp. And when he had ceased to struggle, she called to him again.

«¢ Speak, Orso! What see you in the wonder-stone?”’

«The square at Arqua,’’ answered the sleeper, in a low, troubled voice. “ The masters tomb is there. And there, within, the master lies asleep. No! He stirs —he wakes —he whispers to me!”

«Hark! What does he say? Listen for the words, and heed them well!”

Wondering much, Messer Enrico drew a step nearer, as if the order had been addressed to him. But the woman warned him to stand back with an angry sign.

There was a pause in which he hardly dared to breathe. Then the boy spoke again, faintly and more faintly.

‘“‘ He would redeem his pledge. He cannot rest, even in his grave.”’

‘“Redeem it? How? Is the lost work finished, then, waiting to be found?”

“No! He shakes his head. There is nothing — nothing that may be found.”

‘“How, then, is the master to redeem his promise ? How may one who loves him, dead or living, bring him to eternal peace? Let the dead command! The living will obey.”

Silence, long unbroken. The very earth seemed to stand still in breathless apprehension. There was no sound — no movement, save from the fire at their feet. But its flame was noiseless, like the far-off pulsation of the attendant stars.

The answer came at last, breathed rather than spoken, so softly that it reached Messer Enrico’s ears only in doubtful phrases which obscured the meaning. “Enter the tomb,” it whispered; “at night—in secret —and take away —”’ What? The vital word was lost to him in feeble mutterings; but the sorceress, bending low over the speaker, followed them and caught their sense. As they died away, her eyes flashed triumphantly. She released the boy, laying him gently down, to unclasp his fingers and draw out the letter; then left him where he lay, asleep. And, ata sign, the bewildered goldsmith returned with her to the rock-bound chamber.

Sidienwayeis clear! she cried; ‘there is but one. Didst thou not hear it?”’

<< All is confused,” he answered, “ and nothing clear to me. I heard what I cannot understand. Does the lost manuscript, by some mischance, lie buried in the tomb at Arquar”’

«No, signore; it is not that. Thy debt lies with him in the tomb, and must be cancelled. Thou art to claim the forfeit.”

“ The forfeit? I exacted none.”

« Nay, he, himself, imposed the penalty,” returned the wise woman. Speaking, she smoothed out the master’s letter, and laid her finger upona line of it. “ Look ! This written word still binds him. His restless spirit craves release. Cancel the bond and set him free! ”’

With a look of horror Messer Enrico started back.

«Never, to save my soul!”’ he cried. “1 never can do that.”

«The peace of the master is at stake, as well as thine,” she said, calmly. “ His prayer brings absolution. Dismiss the childish fear, ' and do his bidding.”

“The fiend’s prayer, not the master’s! Heeding it, how may I find peace on earth? The world will hold me guilty of a mortal sin.”

“‘The dead master commits his secret to our keeping,” replied the sorceress ; ‘it is ours to hold and guard through all eternity. The world will never know.”

Messer Enrico sank, shuddering, upon his knees, and hid his face. “If I could believe!’ he moaned.

Moving to his side, the wise woman stooped over him compassionately; there were tears in her eyes as she touched his shoulder with a gentle pressure.

“How to persuade one that will not be persuaded?” she murmured. <I do but waste my words. Go back, signore, to Abano. The evil dream will come again to prove that I speak honestly. And when all doubt is over,

THe Hanp or PETRARCH AI command my service and the boy’s, to aid thee in thy act of faith; it must be done secretly, and with despatch, A word will summon us to Arqua.”’

‘¢ Heaven save me from it!” cried the goldsmith, recovering his self - command, ‘and grant that we may meet no more! The worth of thy infernal counsels —name the price! I would go free of thee forever.”

«Nay, not yet!’ was the quiet answer. “T would be justified. Wait for the fitting hour —the proof which time will surely bring. Wait, signore, wait until we meet at Arqua.”’

He had raised his hand to fling the purse at her feet. But her gentleness disarmed him. He put away the money and, turning silently from the place, went down to Abano in the dusk, he knew not how. There, among men, the spell under which he labored was broken. All that had lately passed became at once unreal. Laughing at fear, he went to bed, to sleep. But he had dismissed the fear too lightly. The spectre was not laid. More dreadful than before, it now bent over him reproachfully ; now touched him with an icy hand. The deadly chill remained, when he woke, shrieking. So, in the space of one short night, was the wise woman justified. Here was the proof she had foretold, which time must surely bring.

Ill

DaysBreak at Arqua! Thoughall thelowland lay hidden in its veil of mist, the sky’s unclouded arch assured a fine, bright morning. Old Vitale, bestirring himself, flung open the shutters of the master’s house, and welcomed the sunshine with a glow of satisfaction. The day was here, at last, when, by appointment, the noble Lord of Padua, Francesco di Carrara, would come again to fulfil the conditions of his trust. To-day the master’s library would be transferred to the patron’s keeping; the closed cabinets would be unlocked, the rare volumes, so carefully protected, one by one would be removed. All was in perfect order, with every seal unbroken. For the hundredth time, the faithful watch-dog convinced himself of this. In a few hours his new master must arrive to take possession ; perhaps, even now, the short journey was more than half accomplished ; there might be signs of hisapproach upon the Paduan road, which the upper western window commanded for a mile or more. To that outlook the old man climbed in nervous expectation. The clustered houses of the town were just below him, and beyond them shone the narrow ribbon of the highway, white and still, without a speck upon it. But, while he looked, the quiet town itself woke from calmness to commotion. He heard the sound of hurrying feet, and saw the little square before the church rapidly fill up with a curious crowd, drawn together by some rumor of a startling nature. All eyes were fixed upon the master’s tomb with looks of mingled wonder and dismay. Old Vitale rushed down among the curious faces, to make, in his turn, an incredible discovery. The tomb had been forced open in the | night; one broken slab of marble lay on the ground where it had fallen. Yet the town had slept quietly, without the slightest hint of such disturbance. What ruffian could have wrought, secretly and silently, this act of in-

A4 Tue Hanp or PETRARCH famous irreverence? For what unholy purpose was the sacred dust within thus violated? These were questions that each one asked, that none dared answer. All dreaded to pursue them further, to define the extent of the theft, to lay bare the effect that should explain the cause.

The wonder grew when the task of investigation was undertaken by the parish priest, and the opening in the tomb proved too small to admit him. The theft, if theft it was, must, then, have been committed either by a child or by a dwarf. Under the priest’s guidance a boy of the inn, solemnly charged to speak the truth, crawled into the sarcophagus, and furnished evidence to be publicly announced with due formality. The master’s face was still serene, undisturbed and undisfgured. His only ornaments — the jewelled clasp of his robe and the ring upon his left hand —remained intact. But the right hand, that master hand to which the world acknowledged an inestimable debt, was wanting. It had been cut off adroitly at the wrist, and secreted or carried away. A thorough search revealed no trace of it. For this mutilation alone had the impious offender performed his deed of darkness. Thus were the cause and effect of his unaccountable desecration explained and verified.

Following hard upon this announcement, the Lord of Padua rode into the square with all his retinue. Immediately every door was closed and every house ransacked at his command. He proclaimed the theft a capital offence, promising rewards and honors to any, high or low, whose testimony should convict the criminal; all without avail. A week passed, and neither the severed hand nor any clue to the place of its concealment came to light. Then he restored the tomb, consecrating it anew with fitting rites and ceremonies, leaving the mystery of the crime and its solution to after ages; still without avail. Centuries have elapsed ; the threats and promises bequeathed to the world by Francesco di Carrara are all forgotten. He, himself, is remembered only as the false patron, who, dispersing the master’s library, betrayed his sacredtrust. But the marble monumentremains at Arqua, an object of veneration. And to-day the humble villager, deciphering its worn inscription, pauses to repeat one line significantly, and to dispute it. ‘ Hic tegzt ossa Petrarce! Nay, not so!” he insists. ‘‘ For the right hand is wanting.” Ask him the why and wherefore, and he shakes his head. He has inherited the mystery, but not the means to answer you.