But the truth was, that her life at Paris had opened a new prospect to Madame Roland, and excited new desires in her bosom. Her activity and enthusiasm longed to employ themselves upon a grand theatre, and she panted to become great, as Plutarch's heroes were great, and to go down to posterity as one of the founders of her country's freedom.
She was soon restored to the wished-for scene of action. In December, 1792, her husband was appointed minister of the interior. She relates with great good-humor the surprise which her husband's plain, citizen-like costume excited at court. The master of ceremonies pointed him out to Dumoriez with an angry and agitated mien, exclaiming, "Ah, sir, no buckles to his shoes!" "Ah, sir," replied Dumoriez, with mock gravity, "all is lost!"
Two measures, which the liberal party deemed essential, were presented to the king by the ministry, but were rejected by him. The party urged the ministers, as a body, to remonstrate; but a majority declined.
Madame Roland insisted that her husband should individually present a remonstrance, which she prepared for him; it was couched in bold and menacing language, and rather calculated to irritate than to persuade the king. Roland read it to the king in full council; he listened patiently to his minister's rebuke, but the next day dismissed him from his office.
Satisfied with having discharged their duty to liberty, Roland and his wife felt no regret at the loss of office. They ceased to meddle with politics, and led a retired life, with the fearful anticipation that the intervention of foreign troops would soon put an end to all their hopes of constitutional freedom. Her appearance and manners at this period of her life are thus described by one who visited her: "Her eyes, her figure, and hair, were of remarkable beauty; her delicate complexion had a freshness and color, which, joined to her reserved yet ingenuous appearance, imparted a singular air of youth. She spoke well, and without affectation; wit, good sense, propriety of expression, keen reasoning, natural grace, all flowing without effort from her rosy lips. Her husband resembled a Quaker, and she looked like his daughter. Her child flitted about her with ringlets down to her waist. She spoke of public affairs only, and I perceived that my moderation inspired pity. Her mind was excited, but her heart remained gentle. Although the monarchy was not yet overturned, she did not conceal that symptoms of anarchy began to appear, and she declared herself ready to resist them to death. I remember the calm and resolute tone in which she declared that she was ready, if need were, to place her head on the block. I confess that the image of that charming head delivered over to the axe of the executioner made an ineffaceable impression; for party excesses had not yet accustomed us to such frightful ideas."
The fomenters of disturbance and the friends of anarchy were the party of the _Mountain_, at the head of which were Robespierre, Danton, Marat, &c. To this party the known moderation of Madame Roland made her peculiarly obnoxious. When, after the suspension of the royal authority, consequent on the events of the 10th of August, it was proposed in the National Convention to recall Roland to the ministry, one of the party exclaimed, "We had better invite madame; she is the real minister." He was reinstated in his office, and maintained for a short time an unflinching struggle with the anarchists; but his efforts were not supported by others; and, wearied out, he tendered his resignation. The Mountain urged its acceptance, but the only charges against him were complaints of his feebleness, and of his being governed by his wife. The Girondists yet held the ascendency in the Convention, and his resignation was not accepted. At the entreaty of his friends, he consented to remain, and wrote thus to the Convention: "Since I am calumniated, since I am threatened by dangers, and since the Convention appear to desire it, I remain. It is too glorious that my alliance with courage and virtue is the only reproach made against me."
Madame Roland has herself offered an apology for her interference in the business of her husband. In the early days of their marriage, she had acted as his amanuensis, and had faithfully copied what he wrote.
But the dryness of his style did not suit her taste, and she began to amend his writings. At length, having a perfect agreement in views and opinions with her husband, he entirely yielded up to her the pen. "I could not express any thing," she says, "that regarded reason or justice, which he was not capable of realizing or maintaining with his conduct; while I expressed better than he could whatever he had done or promised to do. Without my intervention, Roland had been an equally good agent; his activity and knowledge, as well as his probity, were all his own; but he produced a greater sensation through me, since I put into his writings that mixture of energy and gentleness, of authority and persuasion, which is peculiar to a woman of a warm heart and a clear head. I wrote with delight such pieces as I thought would be useful, and I took greater pleasure in them than I should have done had I been their acknowledged author."
Roland continued his struggle against the Mountain, who were daily gaining strength. Although in a minority in the Convention, they were all powerful with the mob; and the knowledge of this, together with their menaces, induced some of the more timid Girondists to vote for their savage measures. Of the frightful state of affairs at Paris, Madame Roland thus writes to a friend: "We are under the knife of Robespierre and Marat. These men agitate the people, and endeavor to turn them against the Assembly and Council; they have a little army, which they pay with money stolen from the Tuileries." Again she writes, "Danton leads all; Robespierre is his puppet; Marat holds his torch and dagger; this ferocious tribune reigns, and we are his slaves until the moment when we shall become his victims. You are aware of my enthusiasm for the revolution; well, I am ashamed of it; it is deformed by monsters, and become hideous. It is degrading to remain, but we are not allowed to quit Paris; they shut us up to murder us when occasion serves."
At length, disheartened by his unavailing efforts to stem the tide of anarchy, Roland again resigned his office; and, satisfied that remaining at Paris could be of no advantage to their country, he and his wife began their preparations for retiring to the country. Her illness caused a delay, and they were yet in Paris when the final overthrow of the Girondists left them no hope for safety but in flight. An order was issued by the Convention for the arrest of Roland: his wife resolved to appeal in person to the Assembly in his behalf. Veiled and alone, she hurried to the place of meeting. She was not admitted: she sent in a letter, soliciting to be heard; but it received no attention. Sadly she left the national palace, sought out her husband, related to him her want of success, and then returned to make another effort to be heard. The Convention was no longer sitting.
She returned home: her husband was in a place of security; and, indifferent to her own fate, she resolved to await whatever might happen.
At a late hour of the night she retired to rest, but was soon roused by her servant, who announced to her that a party of soldiers had come to arrest her. The sanguinary shouts of the mob saluted her as she passed through the streets. "Shall I close the windows?" said an officer who rode with her in the carriage. "No," replied she; "innocence, however oppressed, will never assume the appearance of guilt. I fear the eyes of no one, and will not hide myself." "You have more firmness than most men," said the officer.
Her plans for prison life were at once arranged: she asked and obtained a few books, Plutarch being of the number. The situation of the poorer class of prisoners exciting her pity, she restricted herself to the most abstemious diet, and distributed the money which she thus saved among them.
At the end of about three weeks, a most cruel deception was practised upon her. She was told that she was free, and left the prison; but, on reaching home, she was again arrested, and carried to a new prison, in which the lowest and most infamous criminals of both sexes were confined. A few hours' reflection restored the equanimity which this outrage had disturbed. "Had I not my books?" she says; "was I no longer myself? I was almost angry at having felt disturbed, and thought only of making use of my life, and employing my faculties with that independence which a strong mind preserves even in chains, and which disappoints one's most cruel enemies."
At first, she was confined in the midst of the most abandoned of her sex; but, after a time, the wife of the jailer took compassion on her, and removed her to a more retired apartment. Nor did this humane woman stop here; she sought in every way to soften the rigors of imprisonment. Jasmine was twined round the bars of her window; a piano-forte was provided, with every comfort which her narrow quarters would allow. A few friends were allowed to visit her: she learned that her husband and child were in safety; she became almost happy. But her quiet was soon disturbed. The visitor of the prison was angry at the comforts which she enjoyed; equality must be preserved, and he ordered her to be removed to a common cell.
At one period she meditated suicide. There was no accusation against her, and she saw herself left behind in the daily drafts for the guillotine. "Two months ago," she writes, "I aspired to the honor of ascending the scaffold. Victims were still allowed to speak, and the energy of great courage might have been of service to truth. Now all is lost; to live is basely to submit to a ferocious rule." But her purpose was changed when she found herself included in the act of accusation against the chief Girondists. She expected to be examined before the Revolutionary Tribunal, and hoped to do some good by courageously speaking the truth.
On the 31st of October, 1792, she was transferred to the prison of the Conciergerie, a yet more squalid place of confinement. Her examination commenced the next day, and was continued for several days. The charge against her was holding intercourse with the Girondists. Her defence, which was written out, but not spoken, is eloquent and full of feeling. She was, of course, declared guilty, and sentenced to be executed within twenty-four hours.
Even during these few eventful days, she was not occupied entirely with self. Many of her hours were devoted to the consolation of her fellow-victims. She who was a prisoner with her thus speaks of her: "Perfectly aware of the fate that awaited her, her tranquillity was not disturbed. Though past the bloom of life, she was yet full of attractions: tall, and of an elegant figure, her physiognomy was animated; but sorrow and long imprisonment had left traces of melancholy in her face that tempered her natural vivacity. Something more than is usually found in the eyes of woman beamed in her large, dark eyes, full of sweetness and expression. She often spoke to me at the grate with the freedom and courage of a great man. This republican language, falling from the lips of a pretty woman, for whom the scaffold was prepared, was a miracle of the revolution. We gathered attentively around her in a species of admiration and stupor. Her conversation was serious, without being cold. She spoke with a purity, a melody, and a measure, which rendered her language a sort of music, of which the ear was never tired. Sometimes her sex had the mastery, and we perceived that she had wept over the recollections of her husband and daughter. The woman who attended her said to me one day, 'Before you she calls up all her courage; but in her room she sometimes remains for hours leaning on the window, weeping.'"
She was led to execution on the 10th of November. On the way she exerted herself to restore the failing fortitude of a fellow-sufferer, and won from him, it is said, two smiles. On arriving at the place of execution, she bowed to the statue of Liberty, saying, "O Liberty, how many crimes are committed in thy name!" She bade her companion ascend the scaffold first, that he might escape the pain of seeing her die. To the last, she preserved her courage and dignity of manner.
The news of her death reached her husband at Rouen. He resolved not to outlive her. He doubted whether to surrender himself to the Revolutionary Tribunal, or to commit suicide. He decided on the latter course, in order to save for his child his property, which by law would be confiscated if he died by the judgment of a court. On the 15th of November, he was found dead on the road to Paris, four miles from Rouen. In his pocket was found a paper, setting forth the reasons for his death--"The blood that flows in torrents in my country dictates my resolve; indignation caused me to quit my retreat. As soon as I heard of the murder of my wife, I determined no longer to remain on the earth tainted by crime."
MADAME DE SeVIGNe.
The subject of this memoir, as celebrated in her own particular department of literature as Shakspere or Moliere were in theirs, would have been very much surprised to find herself occupying a conspicuous place in the "Lives of Celebrated Women." She made no pretensions to authorship, and her "Letters," which have been esteemed models of epistolary composition, are the unpremeditated and unrevised outpourings of a mind rich in wit and good sense, and a heart filled with the warmest affections, and were written without the slightest idea that they would ever be read by any other persons than those to whom they were addressed.
Maria de Robertin-Chantal, Baroness de Chantal and Bombilly, was born on the 5th of February, 1626. Her father was the head of a distinguished and noble family of Burgundy. Of his rough wit and independence his daughter has preserved a specimen. When Schomberg was transformed, by Louis XIII., from a minister of finance to a field-marshal, Chantal wrote to him the following letter:--
"My Lord,
"Rank--black beard--intimacy.
"CHANTAL."--
meaning that he owed his advancement, not to his military exploits, but to his rank, his having a black beard, like his master, and to his intimacy with that master.
When Maria was about a year and a half old, the English made a descent upon the Island of Rhe; and her father placed himself at the head of a party of gentlemen who volunteered to assist in repelling them, in which honorable service he lost his life. His widow survived him five years. She was the daughter of a secretary of state, and her family, that of De Coulanges, belonged to the class of nobility who owed that distinction to civil services, and who were known as "nobles of the robe," to distinguish them from those who could trace their descent from the heroes of the crusades and the days of chivalry.
It seems to have been expected that the paternal grandmother would have taken charge of the education of the little orphan. But she was too much occupied with the affairs of the other world, and with founding religious houses,--of which eighty-seven owed their existence to her,--and Maria was left in the hands of her maternal relations.
The pious labors of the "Blessed Mother of Chantal" were acknowledged by the head of the church, and her name now fills a place in the calendar, among the saints. The guardianship of the young baroness devolved on her uncle, Christophe de Coulanges, abbe de Livry.
Most men would have shrunk from the task of personally superintending the education of a young girl, and would, in conformity to the customs of the times, have consigned her to a convent, where she would have been taught to read, to write, to dance, and to embroider; and then her education would have been deemed complete.
It is no slight evidence of the good sense of her uncle that he retained her in his own house. The decision was a fortunate one for posterity; for her faculties, which the formal training of the convent would have cramped, were called into exercise and expanded by an unusual indulgence in the range of reading, and probably by a familiar intercourse with the men of letters who sought her uncle's society. Under his instructions she doubtless acquired a knowledge of the Latin and Italian languages, and something of the Spanish.
All this, however, is to some extent matter of inference, for we have no record of her early life. She tells us in her "Letters" that she was brought up at court, and there she formed her manners and her tastes--fortunately without the corruption of her morals.
From the accounts given by her witty and profligate cousin Bussy-Robertin, we can obtain a tolerably correct idea of her appearance when she entered as an actor upon the scene of life. She was somewhat tall for a woman; had a good shape, a pleasing voice, a fine complexion, brilliant eyes, and a profusion of light hair; but her eyes, though brilliant, were small, and, together with the eyelashes, were of different tints: her lips, though well colored, were too flat, and the end of her nose too square. De Bussy tells us that she had more shape than grace, yet danced well; she had also a taste for singing. He makes to her the objection that she was too playful "for a woman of quality."
Not beautiful, but highly attractive, of cordial manners, and with a lively sensibility, at one moment dissolved in tears, and at another almost dying with laughter,--Mademoiselle de Robertin, then eighteen years old, was married to the Marquis de Sevigne, of an ancient family of Brittany. Her letters written during the first years of her marriage are full of gayety; there is no trace of misfortune or sorrow. But her husband was fond of pleasure, extravagant in his expenses, heedless, and gay--a character not likely to escape the contagion of that universal depravity of manners which prevailed at the French court. His conduct threw a cloud over their happiness.
Madame de Sevigne bore her misfortunes with dignity and patience. In spite of his misconduct, she loved him deeply; and his death, not long afterwards, in a duel, caused her the most profound sorrow.
Her uncle, the abbe, resumed his former office of protector and counsellor. He withdrew her from the contemplation of her grief, and drew her attention to her duties, the chief and dearest of which was the education of her two children, a son and a daughter. To this object, and to rendering the life of her uncle happy, she resolved to devote herself. Of her obligations to her uncle she thus speaks in a letter written many years afterwards, on the occasion of his death: "I am plunged in sorrow: ten days ago I saw my dear uncle die; and you know what he was to his dear niece. He has conferred on me every benefit in the world, either by giving me property of his own, or preserving and augmenting that of my children. He drew me from the abyss into which M. de Sevigne's death plunged me; he gained lawsuits; he put my affairs in good order; he paid our debts; he has made the estate on which my son lives the prettiest and most agreeable in the world."
Time restored to the young widow her lost gayety, and she was the delight of the circles in which she was intimate. The Hotel de Rambouillet, at Paris, where she resided, was the resort of all who were celebrated for wit or talent, and her presence was always hailed with joy. _Euphuism_ was the fashion of the day, and in this _coterie_ it had reached the highest degree of perfection. Common appellations were discarded; water became "_l'humeur celeste_," and a chaplet "_une chaine spirituelle_." The use of names was banished, and each was addressed as "ma chere" or "ma precieuse." "_Les Precieuses Ridicules_" of Moliere at length put an end to the affectation. Many of the _coterie_ were present at its first representation, and were obliged to swallow the vexation which the delight evinced by the public at seeing them held up to ridicule, could not fail to excite.
The early education of her children being completed, their establishment in life became a source of anxiety. Her son, when nineteen, joined the expedition to Candia; concerning which Madame de Sevigne writes to her cousin De Bussy, "I suppose you know that my son is gone to Candia. He mentioned it to M. de Turenne, to Cardinal de Retz, and to M. de la Rochefoucauld. These gentlemen so approved his design that it was resolved on and made public before I knew any thing of it.
He is gone. I wept his departure bitterly, and am deeply afflicted.
I shall not have a moment's repose during the expedition. I see all the dangers, and they destroy me; but I am not the mistress. On such occasions mothers have no voice." She had reason for anxiety. Few of the officers returned, but one of these was the Baron de Sevigne. A commission was purchased for him in the army, and he served with distinction during several campaigns; but his family had taken part against the court during the wars of the Fronde, and were Jansenists, so that he received no promotion, and at length left the army, and settled into a quiet, well-behaved, country gentleman. Rejecting many nice matches which his mother sought to make for him, he chose a wife for himself, and his choice fortunately met her approbation.
Her daughter was presented at court, in 1663, and took part in the brilliant _fetes_ of the following year. The mother's heart was, no doubt, gladdened by the declaration of the Count de Treville, a sort of oracle in the great world, "_That_ beauty will set the world on fire." Her marriage became a subject of the deepest anxiety, and it was long before her mother was satisfied with any of those who pretended to the hand of "_la plus jolie fille de France_." She at length accepted the proposals of the twice-widowed Count de Grignan, and the event is thus announced to her cousin: "I must tell you a piece of news which will doubtless delight you. At length the prettiest woman in France is about to marry, not the handsomest youth, but the most excellent man in the kingdom. You have long known M. de Grignan. All his wives are dead, to make room for your cousin, as well as, through wonderful luck, his father and his son; so that, being richer than he ever was, and being, through his birth, his position, and his good qualities, such as we desire, we conclude at once. The public appears satisfied, and that is much, for one is silly enough to be greatly influenced by it."
By marrying her daughter to a courtier, Madame de Sevigne hoped to secure her daughter's permanent residence near herself at Paris. The count, however, was deputy-governor of Provence, and received orders, soon after his marriage, to proceed to that distant province, where he continued to reside, with the exception of occasional visits to Paris, during the remainder of his mother-in-law's life. The mother and daughter contrived to pass about half the time with each other, and, in the intervals, to keep up a conversation by means of constant epistolary correspondence, in which the former relates all the amusing gossip which would have been subject of discourse had they been together. To the mother's share of these conversations we are delighted listeners. She speaks of events which in themselves are trifling, and of persons of whom we never before heard; yet she is never tedious. The vivacity of her intellect and the charms of her style give an interest to every thought and act. The task of selecting specimens is a difficult one; all is worthy of transcription; we will take those which throw the most light upon her character and mode of life. The following was written at an estate of her husband's, called "The Rocks," situated on the sea-coast of Brittany, where she delighted to pass her time: she had a love of the country, of nature, and of simple pleasures--a rare taste for a Frenchwoman of that age.
Nothing pleased her more than the song of the nightingale, the cuckoo, and the thrush, during the early spring; her writings are filled with her passion for the birds and avenues of "Les Rochers."
The letter is addressed, not to her daughter, but to her cousin, De Coulanges.
"I write, my dear cousin, over and above the stipulated fortnight communications, to advertise you that you will soon have the honor of seeing Picard; and, as he is brother to the lackey of Madame de Coulanges, I must tell you the reason why. You know that Madame the Duchess de Chaulnes is at Vitre; she expects the duke there, in ten or twelve days, with the states of Brittany. Well, and what then? say you. I say that the duchess is expecting the duke with all the states, and that meanwhile she is at Vitre all alone, dying with ennui. And what, return you, has this to do with Picard? Why, look; she is dying with ennui, and I am her only consolation; and so you may readily conceive that I carry it with a high hand. A pretty roundabout way of telling my story, I must confess; but it will bring us to the point.
Well, then, as I am her only consolation, it follows that, after I have been to see her, she will come to see me, when, of course, I shall wish her to find my garden in good order--those fine walks of which you are so fond. Still you are at a loss to conceive whither they are leading you now. Attend, then, if you please, to a little suggestion by the way. You are aware that haymaking is going forward?
Well, I have no haymakers; I send into the neighboring fields to press them into my service; there are none to be found; and so all my own people are summoned to make hay instead. But do you know what haymaking is? I will tell you. Haymaking is the prettiest thing in the world. You play at turning the grass over in a meadow; and as soon as you know how to do that, you know how to make hay. The whole house went merrily to the task, all but Picard: he said he would not go; that he was not engaged for such work; that it was none of his business; and that he would sooner betake himself to Paris. Faith!
didn't I get angry? It was the hundredth disservice the silly fellow had done me. I saw he had neither heart nor zeal; in short, the measure of his offence was full. I took him at his word; was deaf as a rock to all entreaties in his behalf; and he has set off. It is fit that people should be treated as they deserve. If you see him, don't welcome him; don't protect him; and don't blame me. Only look upon him as, of all servants in the world, the one least addicted to haymaking, and therefore the most unworthy of good treatment. This is the sum total of the affair. As for me, I am fond of straightforward histories, that contain not a word too much; that never go wandering about, and beginning again from remote points; and, accordingly, I think I may say, without vanity, that I hereby present you with a model of an agreeable narration."
We will now go with her to Paris, and listen to a little of her gossip with her daughter.
"PARIS, _March 13th_.
"Behold me, to the delight of my heart, all alone in my chamber, writing to you in tranquillity. Nothing gives me comfort like being seated thus. I dined to-day at Madame de Lavardin's, after having been to hear Bourdaloue, where I saw the mothers of the church; for so I call the Princesses de Conti and Longueville. All the world was at the sermon, and the sermon was worthy of all that heard it. I thought of you twenty times, and wished you as often beside me. You would have been enchanted to be a listener, and I should have been tenfold enchanted to see you listen. * * *
"We have been to the fair, to see a great fright of a woman, bigger than Riberpre by a whole head. * * * And now, if you fancy all the maids of honor run mad, you will not fancy amiss. Eight days ago, Madame de Ludre, Coetlogon, and little De Rouvroi were bitten by a puppy belonging to Theobon, and the puppy has died mad; so Ludre, Coetlogon, and De Rouvroi set off this morning for the coast, to be dipped three times in the sea. 'Tis a dismal journey. Benserade is in despair about it. Theobon does not choose to go, though she had a little bite too. The queen, however, objects to her being in waiting till the issue of the adventure is known. Don't you think Ludre resembles Andromeda? For my part, I see her fastened to the rock, and Treville coming, on a winged horse, to deliver her from the monster. * * * Ah, Bourdaloue! what divine truths you told us to-day about death! Madame de la Fayette heard him for the first time in her life, and was transported with admiration. She is enchanted with your remembrances. * * * A scene took place yesterday at Mademoiselle's, which I enjoyed extremely.
In comes Madame de Gevres, full of her airs and graces. She looked as if she expected I should give her my poet; but, 'faith, I owed her an affront for her behavior the other day, so I didn't budge.
Mademoiselle was in bed; Madame de Gevres was therefore obliged to go lower down; no very pleasant thing that! Mademoiselle calls for drink; somebody must present the napkin; Madame de Gevres begins to draw off the glove from her skinny hand; I gave a nudge to Madame d'Arpajou, who was above me; she understands me, draws off her glove, and, advancing a step with a very good grace, cuts short the duchess, and takes and presents the napkin. The duchess was quite confounded; she had made her way up, and got off her gloves, and all to see the napkin presented before her by Madame d'Arpajou! My dear, I am a wicked creature; I was in a state of delight; and indeed what could have been better done? Would any one but Madame de Gevres have thought of depriving Madame d'Arpajou of an honor which fell so naturally to her share, standing as she did by the bedside? It was as good as a cordial to Madame de Puisieux. Mademoiselle did not dare to lift up her eyes; and, as for myself, I had the most good-for-nothing face!"
Who this Mademoiselle was, Madame de Sevigne shall herself tell. The following, one of the most curious of her letters, is addressed to her cousin, De Coulanges: "I am going to tell you a thing, which, of all things in the world, is the most astonishing, the most surprising, the most marvellous, the most miraculous, the most triumphant, the most bewildering, the most unheard-of, the most singular, the most extraordinary, the most incredible, the most unexpected, the most exalting, the most humbling, the most rare, the most common, the most public, the most private,--till this moment,--the most brilliant, the most enviable, in short, a thing of which no example is to be found in past times; at least, nothing quite like it;--a thing which we do not know how to believe in Paris; how, then, are you to believe it at Lyons? a thing which makes all the world cry out, 'Lord, have mercy on us!' a thing which has transported Madame de Rohan and Madame d'Hauterive; a thing which is to be done on Sunday, and yet perhaps will not be completed till Monday. I cannot expect you to guess it at once. I give you a trial of three times; do you give it up? Well, then, I must tell you. M. de Lauzun is to marry, next Sunday, at the Louvre; guess whom. I give you four times to guess it; I give you six; I give you a hundred. 'Truly,' cries Madame de Coulanges, 'it must be a very difficult thing to guess; 'tis Madame de la Valliere.' 'No, it isn't, madame.' ''Tis Mademoiselle de Retz, then.' 'No, it isn't, madame; you are terribly provincial.' 'O, we are very stupid, no doubt,' say you; ''tis Mademoiselle Colbert.' Farther off than ever.