7w]v <ooooo}aaaq {:<xai *o Roulade And Mamochka sounds the same as a roulade; the piano starts speaking her sounds to me. Mama sits down to play; her hands pour out sounds; the roulade flows, foaming against a key with a handpouring trill, splashing my soul with a discant: the concentrated bass falls into the precipice, gravitating to there by its weight: the surfaces of the keys have parted loudly into combs, winking sharps; the sea deceives. That isMama: again she started speaking out; she shines with gracefulness, with a shiny gradation, with a gesticulation of the scale: from a birds singing to a howl, to a tiger; it smells tenderly of a little lemon flower; she marvels with upflown little eyebrows: her little eyes arepansies. Tenderly she pronounces her steps with a silky whisper, shiningly enlivened by perfumy spirits, having donned her shiny rose kazakin, hanging creamy lace, exclaiming resoundingly with a bunch of keysshe pronounces her steps on the carpet: to the chiffonier, where dresses are flattened out in a clear mass of satin, where this bustle swells up found under skirts even, I know, the German girl has such a little pillow; I know, they deftly tie up such a little pillow where necessary, in order to be fullsided. Sides turning around and around and with her birthmark jumping, Mama passes by with a bustle in her hands, throwing her eyes in passing at the little window. The sunset, like a little lemon flower, smells tenderly: of an infusion of flowers; the rooms are filled like a perfumery. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . From the past a transfluent image gushes into her soul. Goodness, or maliciousnessis only the foam of a gulf of that, ones own, which is in everyone; ones own shouted out in Mama like a phantasy of palms and like a bunch of gabbing wenches of baobob, in which was revealed a fountain of varicolored humming birds, elephants stamped and hyenas stank: a zoological garden, but not Mamochka; India, but not the professorial circle of the nineties, not Arbat; only an old Chinaman, my Papa, could convert this circle to the philosophy of Tao of Lao-tzu, counselling one to see big breasted professors wives not as old wenches,but as parks, and to remake the flies you are fed up with into very occupying, you know, little machines. Professors wives,are not even flies; Bobynin the professor is not silly, but if you sit yourself between them a tropical forest will turn into a gabbing tedium of scholarly uncombed old women, who at one time married their husbands on ones own convictions; these professors wives do not like Mama: they accompany her with crookedmouth malice; for them she isa little girl: andthey lay in a circle wolf traps of customs: they catch Mama in the custom of the professorial life: in the kitchen dry mushrooms hung like ears; Malinovskyis listening; the walls haveears So, yes, my dear!.. Why is it,yes? Why is it that you do not attend the Temperance Society, yes All of us, that is, attend! Sofya Dragonovna, and Anna Gorgonovna with Anna Grinovna. Dragons, gorgons and grins haunt me: very terrifying is the grinthe crookedmouth malice of professors wives: I saw a little picture; a little red fox which they were hunting with dogs; somewhere all of this was barked out: Mamochka, the little fox, grinned strongly at this: I feared the professors wives: especially that one, Doktorovsky; yes, yes, she has a very stout one of those thing on which they all put a bustle; all the time she would twaddle with whomever was giving a paper, burdened with a dissertation; and to the one who still had not declaimed his paper, she would present up that very stout thing represented by her bustle; she even presented it to Mamochka, covering her eyes with patches of ice; and the old rats the Sleptsovs stick their little noses out from their lair: to sniff her beauty and to peep aloud, thatno, no: she is not beautiful, that she needs to have her braids trimmed; she is distressed by the squeals: her little eyes areicy whirlpools, they freeze; and then they let go along the cheeks a little bead: into a little handkerchief; they melted: they flutter anew like a butterfly among the palm trees: it smelled of spring, andof a white lapdog, Almochka, with a part on the little brow combed with a little comb; having sat gayly in a rocking chair with a silky whisper, she tossed one little leg on the other little leg: a red slipper hangs rather playfully from her tiptoe Almochka began scratching with her little paws on the floor,with her little tail in the air: hum-hum; and the little tiptoe turns around and around like a little finger, just like a goose puss: the red slipper smacked against the floor; the lapdogstarts running in circles like a hare, gripping with its teeth, like a delicacy, the slipper; I, getting down on all fours, crawl in a lump under the little foot, like Almochka; Mamochka, flowering shiningly in her selfspiritedness, tosses back her braid, laughs: Look! Catch him! Hold him! Kotik is putting on a show! Snapping her palms, she flies down from the rocking chair. Andshe chases me; she grabs about, rolling with me on the carpet, letting her hair fall down with combs of hanging braids over me; I seein the pit of her neck, under the skin, a little mouse began to move; I stick my little head right into Mamas skirt, into the sheer rustling of her crepe de Chine, and shelifts the hem of my darkblue dress: she loudly smacks there, where one should smack: let her smack, this issuch playing between us! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . She breathed a sigh, that I would become, like the fly, an occupying little machine, complicated by Papochka. She daydreamedof a young man, a mathematician, heeding conversations about modules, preferring them to the shiny force beating in her, not hearing music and bespectacled it is impossible to hang Tintoretto side by side with Flemish hares or with a Flemish, even if virtuous, corpulent and red kitchen maid in an overstarched cap; Papahung: an Italian landscape, next to a landscape of a scholarly kitchen maid: next to the professors wife KislenkoMama! And Mama trembled, fearing, that they would cripple me, clothing me in a going-out frock coat of science. If you had asked Papa: And what should we order for Kot? He would have answered: What? Buy him a bowler hat! Yes, yes! Order him a little frock coat! He could have, for sure, brought me a spectacle case for my name-day celebration. He was always forcing himself to clarify for me the phenomena of life as a complication of impetuous centripetal forces with centrifugal (ones); this gift was similar to the case. I looked in the forces, as in reinforced spectaclesvery sickly; he piped on his pipe: Therein is the force! Here is a force! There is no force in that! But what is force? Andforce responded with the image of Firs, the son of Yorsh (i.e. Uncle Yorsh). This onelooked sickly; andhe died; andthe thought occured to me: Yes there is no force in that! Therein is force, that force isFirs! And this Firs grewsicker and sicker; if I could understand forces, thenI would become sickly; and I would die, without achieving force. And everyone said quite reproachfully to Papa: Leave him be: hell develop even more prematurely, and then die, like your Firs. And you! . . . . . . . . . Andit used to be like a roulade sickly forces rolled out, like a thread of little crystals on the floor; notes on the scale were threaded just like little crystals on a thread: from among the stormfelled trees, a triad, of one chased somewhere, a delicate note starily sparkles out; another stars from the first, smashed by trills of a descant little lake into a downpour of clear little flies; by the shore: the sparkle of Mamas little fingers mature along the blackish bones; andthey begin to beat anew in a precipitous bass, banging out into the abyss and beating resonantly what is lying into howls; andit washes with a jangling joyfulness, the stones of chords are covered with fizzling foam; andthe precision of the roulade contour is screened by the smoky haze of the pedal; there gives out: between the descant and the bass a suf-fering, human voice, and it is oppressed by the bass; andit perishes without a trace; Icry: some sort of whirlwinds rise as if grabbed away, like a luminouspawed flame, from the little breast: curling into space and into the quickness of events; it grabs onto space: like the space of eventlessness spaces disintegrated into instabilities: like a daily composition; where the lilac night grew dense,the morning shone through transparently; the matter of night is sliced shiningly by shots of clarity; the unknown has past: all across the land bluens, in order to become the light blue, wave of day, that is Mama, playing, again she is amazed with upflown little eyebrows; a wreath of curls dances on her little brow; her little nose became clarified by a little drop of perspiration; and ah! grown timid, she passes through the sounds,on tiptoes; like a little girl. Andwith her congenital birthmark she looks dumfoundedly into my soul; her little eyes have totally emeraldized; how they jump up to the top from the bottom of the page,to the little hook, to the note. I stand, I look: I love! This ispoison; the sweet poison of the Renaissance, where people perform actions, they look with resolution, they love and destroy without rule: in sounds; not a moral life at alla musical one: My Kotik! Forceis not in this, but in that, where I cant force you! Only the little bees, flying from Mamas lips like honeysweeten; but now and then they sting: where isthe law of foundation? Papa applies this law to himself: he leads a young, bespectacled youth,on the foundations of strict, old faithful trials he leads him to the post of docent; but Mamochka says with a sparkling: Yes: he is a bureaucrat! He reeks of trash! Youll deceive yourself In about twenty years the former young man isthe administrator of a surrounding school district: all of the district moans! Mamochka is right after all: without foundations! . . . . . . I love the little face grown thin with the proud birthmark, with a slim, sharpened little nose, and withrosy little cheek; and the little mouth, slightly offended, complicated, just like a little flower,the pearly, even little teeth dew; a playful little chin with a dimple barely visible; and the little brow, not fullgrown, clarifies itself by running arcs of flying, sable eyebrows, raising arcs of wrinkles, and then squatting down to the halfbent black eyelashes of the pansy eyes, faithful, or offended and suspiciously sharpsighted, like leeches how they drink in! She is offended: the little mouth becomes like a little worm! She laughs: and dimples appear! A swollen lip rises; andthe little teethcan be seen She screws up her little eyes, waving the veil of her eyelashes and glancingly flinging two sparks; her little head leans to the side; it sprinkles down in a dense thicket of splendid chestnut hair; and Mamochka becomes such a Moscow beauty: from the painting by Makovsky; The Wedding Feast! In this pose of the bride she loses herself in admiration in the mirror! Papa noses about like a thickset gnome (the floorboard squeaks): he slaps her on the little shoulder; Mama submits to him, barely rosening with a smile which has mercy on us, our life and flies to meet some former experience, after whichis it worth living, without whichis it worth believing? The smile, the unfortunate one, lasts a second; apparently another smile, covering up the first, is borne away with Papa; but the firsttakes a seat somewhere: all in the little corner. The second is a little river of domestic cares. Papa notices this smile, but the first onehe does not see; andhe continues to fumble about with Mamas little shoulder. Here: I purchasedtwo tablecloths! Here: look! And Papa, not glancing, slaps her on the little shoulder: So! Dont so me, look attentively This one, here, you see: with the cocksall over; it cost me This one, here! Papa pounds his opinion: So: superlative magnificent Andwith cocks, andit did not cost you dearly. And he continues to snap. Papa had his hair trimmed today: he is emboldenedwith a beard not at all large, which has become doubly prickly; because of it his neck seems thicker; and the face more bestial: ah, what did he get a trim for? O, no: they surely never will understand one another, but Iunderstand already: Mama isexactly like the bride of the painting by Makovsky The Wedding Feast, well, and Papa,such a bride-groom? Consequently? I think about this: but these thoughts aredangerous things: things prophesy how they should be in this case; to understand prophetic things, thissignifies: to set aside the borders between them and me; and I set myself to acknowledge me already as Papa: Mamas and Papas; they do not permit this turnabout in me; I am sliced off from them in the understanding of very dangerous and prophetic things; I withdraw into dumfounderment, I transgress the line; and my transgression is the revelation of truth without the realization of the fact, that it isa revelation; not to realize the rightness of ones own learningdoesnt this signify: to be in transgression; yes! The sin of transgression istimidity! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I had already heard from Mama: at a dinner given for Turgenev they seated Mama with Saltanova in such a way, so that Turgenev would see the beauties: before a splendid bouquet of flowers; and Turgenev, having put on his pince-nez with a wide black ribbon,stared at Mama closely; Papa, warmed by champagne, spoke better than all of them; and the weak Boborykin, who let out a word like a toy steamshipforward, but left his idea like a toy rowboatbehind, Boborykin, who was all in yellow, who was called Petrusha by Sofia Aleksandrovna Boborykin I saw him in Lugano in sixteen, it seems (of this century); and he recalled: Mikhail Vasilich used to! Yes, yes: Boborykin counselled Mama to study diction with him: I am telling you! You have very many magnificent, artistic gifts! O, Russian women, Russian women, I do not understand you; no, how is it possible: housekeeping, and children, and the kitchen, when the artistic world isavailable to you! I am telling you You listen: Pyotr Boborykinhe said (I remember himtall, fidgety, all in yellow, all in motley; he puts a lorgnette to his spectacles; and his skull fills, and beats with crimson veins; he leaps up, and sits down; and grabs with his finger for the curlicue of the armchairs back), and Mama used to heed him: andshe was drawn to the stage. Everything shiny about the way I livethis is the Mama in me: it bubbles like a conversation; and out fall: a golden little fish, a crystalline lense and a shiny rag; I raise the crystalline lense to her faceshe pushes it away with her hand; to narrate more resoundingly; rather scatterbrainedly she messes up my little hair, she catches her bracelet on my little nose: it smells of springof meadows: the narrations of Mamas childhood cooled off; she places little bouquets of flowers before us: yes, they called her Little Star: this little girl, Little Star, came out of Mamas little eyes; she, is like I; she isa little girl, Little Star; we ran to the meadow: cannibalistic time was chasing. I remember: she speaks like on a stage; significantly she measures with her gaze and places a finger to her lips: Do you know what? This do you know what sounds all through the room; I throw down my clown, crawl across to the carpet, sit under her little knees, open my little mouthat how the bent little arm, gleaminglike a yellow-flowing beryl the elbow relaxed on the table; she isa wordgiver; Henrietta Martynovna, that one is,a wordtaker, Mama is mimicking: she sets her little arms apart: to the rightto the left; andamuses herself with a song: My Pippo, Im just as always, Loving you so many old ways and I throw myself down to shout: And nowthe cockroaches! She: Yes, where the cockroaches are many, O, yes, where there are many, In that house there is a-bun-dance: A-bun-dance! I know that Mascott isZorina (in the operetta by Lentovsky: Lentovsky walks in a tight fitting coat) Pippo wasOgnyov, Roman Yaklich, now appearing in the Mariinsky Theatre, bedeviled by the passions of Mephistopheles instead of Kondratyev and begging Poliksena Borisovna in the aria of the Demon to take his hand and heart; she does not agree; but, butcalling Ognyov Romashashe answers him: and Mamochka here licks her lips, bends her little head, and from under her brows jump her little eyes, like Poliksena Borisovna: You, Romasha, should go to visit Napravnik? After: the little mouth grins, and the eyes are bedeviled; I hear how the long Romasha, grinning, booms like a bass at the top of his voice: The devil take you! I wont go! He fears Napravnik: for that reason he does not go; they tell him: Ah, Romasha, Romasha: you should go All these conversations are about the time when Mamochka lived in Petersburg, at the home of Poliksena Borisovna Bleshchensky: near the Moika; a persona from the czarist family came for tea: wild Romasha sat behind the alcove, not daring to blow his nose; she looks at the turquoise ring; andcollects herself with a new thought; from her left hand, from the elbow a cigarette curls a curly stream (yes, Mamochka had begun to light up something); it passes,the smilethat one, the first one: Ah! Petersburg!.. She says all of this for her own self: she wants to say it aloud: shes singing well; everything isimpossibly shiny and impossibly understandable to me, like music; that here,I do not know; I close my eyes,with my face to the crepe de Chine blouse; she places her little hand on my head, playing scatterbrainedly with a lock: she looks at the lock; now with a totally extinguished face she herself lives through all of this with an exclamatory whistle jangling the snows against the glasspanes,are the gusts, beyond the glasspanes, there: the views are drawn shut... beyond the glasspanes; the Arbat curls itself anew in a whitecoronal veil: beyond the glasspanes; someone has started to mutter in the chimneythe same thing: O, God! As if to narratethe same thing: O, God! In the chimney someone has started to mutter: about something. Suddenly there was a crack: the floor settled down: Papa, with his closely trimmed hair, long attracted by narrations, heavily stomps his foot, placing behind his back two hands with the paperknife and protruding his full stomach, he settles down his big head, smacked into his back; scatterbrainedly he stood up before the mirror, as if not seeing himself; having glimpsed the self before himself, he imbibed bestially the trim of his beard, placing two fingers under his spectacles; andhe could not tear himself away, could not tear himself away: from Mamas loud words (Petersburg, Petersburg!), or from the wild Scythian countenance with the bestially trimmed little beard; Mama again dis-solves in a word, like a row of her own cartons out of which she takes feathery hats; here Papa cannot hold out: rather hurrying little eyes ran like flies; his fingersjerk like marionettes; the vein on his neck swelled: Leave it behe raises his petty little eyes at Mamatwo little points, two tips of pencil stubs (these hurrying little eyes disturb me!)Leave it be: Petersburg, this isthe Germans. But Mamochka, clenching her lips, tossing one leg on the other, rustled with silken whispers of her skirt; andthe tiptoe jumps rather significantly; and Papa sharpens his words like pencil stubs, this way and that, into a tip of his own thought: he is disinfecting opinions: All of this, Lizanka, is nonsense: trumpery, dumbness; we do not need this, we simply have to face it! He was dragged again to the mirror (here is how he is after a trim! He had becomea consummate Scythian): and he smooths his face with a fullbodied hand, having turned around, trying to glimpse his own profile; andagain he clicked his heels from the mirror into a dense thicket of questions: What kind of life is that there? Of this Poliksena Borisovna? Singers, highbrows, hussars,.. And isnt it tedious for you, my Lizok,in such a society?!? I do not understand this! He is blind as a bat: and he does not seeMamas face has thinned from tedium, andit tossed itself straight into your eyes; it went over suddenly to the eyes, and the two eyes widened apart and were tossed about, and (ai!) they naggingly burned everything which lay in front of them; but Papa is already collecting himself to display an army of arguments; he turns around on the chair; he chops cutlets in the air with his hands: Moscow, so to say, is the natural, our Russian center,of any intellectual, moral, literary, social life he passes by in a waddle on his powerful, short legs; he stands flatfooted with a boot on the parquetMoscow is the commercial center: it is the junction of the railroads, that which expresses the province Papa strikes his words more forcefully And Mama, tossed one leg over the other, and her little red tiptoe began to jump bitingly: Yes, Petersburg has prospects, the czaritsa rolls along Nevsky in a carriage: bowsto the right, bowsto the left, and Yablochkovs illuminationsparkles!.. And quickly, quickeruntil he is running on tiptoes Papochka is swept about over the floor on his thickset little back; suddenly he clicks his heels totally sarcastically (he even jumps up, clicking anda wave with the paperknife!) Phoo-you. Princess Dagmar,I beg your pardoneh, that there goes for a ride: ahdumbness, dumbness! And already Mamas little eyes become apparent little adamantine eyes; she cries: they do not care about her; for her to live in the Moscow milieu iscompletely impossible: as a professor,she is a fool, as a professors wife,she is a scamp-vamp; andshe passes her eyes over Papa; andturns to the spoon lying in front of her: and grabs it, and throws it away; and the rosy little mouth isa sheer bluebell ehe: yes, he is a piper! and here she goes on and goes on: that she will leave Papa, that Papa isa degenerate, the likes of which are few, and Mama is a beauty; she looks on us with ailing little eyes: Its not a disturbance of sensitive nervesno, no; Imwell Iyou!.. Get out of here, all of you! Andshe takes us all in with such a look, that no matter what you sayit is nonsense: and shewill show everyone; how crabby she can be, the old crab apple; andshe displays her birthmark: Papa squeaks a floorboard in his study: a fivefingered hand trembles over a fly, still whole from flight; andtsap; he catches it: and the fly sits in the fist; its head is torn off; that is not a fly, butMama; not Mama, butMamas nerves; suddenlyhe jerks: he begins to run quickly, strongly pressing his fist to the starch of the shirt and grinning a white sparkle of teeth; and with the other hand at sudden turning points bam, bam, bam, bam, bam! very quickly he strikes in the air; once I looked in on him: he was all tufted up: just like two eyesenormous, crimsonthe study windows widened in sheer sunset, crimsoning the doorjambs, the hand washstand and table: all in redPapa paced back and forth,oh, no, he did not pace back and forth he ran on tiptoes, strongly pressing to the starch of his shirt his whole jaw, separated by a mouth with a white sparkle of teeth, as if he would shout out without a voice one hand presses to his breathing side; the other, clenched in a fist, at sudden turning points bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, he beat in the air, as if performing Muellers exercises; Papochkas running, this wide open mouth, shouting at the dusk, pressed at the chin to the starch of the snapping shirt; and bam, bam, bam, bam, stuck in my memory: I ran away!.. . . . . . Having shouted and run a bit with himselfin his own room,he came out to make peace: completely calmed, even somewhat softened (I used to see him like that coming home from the bathhouse); having settled in the armchair, he took off his spectacles with relief: to wipe them rather gayly: the narrow shoulders slopingly fallen under a very large head brought a confession of guilt: the head had been seated by two men with great force, who had first strained themselves; it sat somehow,to the side . . . . . Mama also gets over it easily; she cries a bit; anddresses up: for a soiree; she walks under the mirror like a pliant peacock; her bustle gives her a slightly comical look; andshe evens herself out: the train, shuffling silk lace; the waistlike a liqueur glass; worthy splendors rise up in the charming slit, smelling of opopanax Pinot and blindingly from the diamond, falling in the middle ground, between two bodily creases, with a velvet ribbon; just like Venus, she burns in the dawnbefore the sun which is concealed: lower in the corsage; admirers of Mama, surely, are trying to guess: Will it rise! It wont rise! Andthey try with a glance (as if by chance) to penetrate beyond the line of the horizon: andno, it will not rise! Mama was a bit worried: the pinned-together slit rocks like a dewy, rosy rose, when she walks, pulling on a glove to the elbow and tacking together with an overwound tower of hairdo on the motley carpet her small hairpin; she stumbles in her train; grabbing at it with a deft hand from her tossed little leg, she weaves about us with a rosy whisper of the silk lining what a lining in this dress! I loved the linings in Mamas dresses: she should turn her dresses inside out: the inside facing out; the insides used to shout: with canary, rosy, red, so big: she standsceremoniously; dont approach: no, no, no! And she used to return, and then: unfasten herself; the corsage falls to Dunyasha, and the skirtsone after anotherfall on the carpet; and from them Mama jumps up to me,barearmed, a skinny little thing, just in pantalettes, having left behind her splendor, to fawn over me; this wasafter; nowno-no-no; ceremoniously she stands, ceremoniously she passes by: in the little window, where there was the bigheadedness of the clouds, where only multibrowed mountains stood in the line of the horizon,browless planes; andfrom behind them, sitting down and illumining us with a brief departing ray, clearly transparent, coming down under it,a twinkling sphere, a red sphere, squatting down into the earth: to sit out the night; they laid away the twinkling sphere in a special case with a lacquered cover, upholstered with satin on the inside, like an expensive ring,from Faberge or Deibelle, weighty and burdensome!.. Temporary is the time; butburdensome is time; it mumbles byin given up days; and it gives out: into our ears, into our souls!.. . . . . . The ante room is small: from there the wallpaper stared with yellow-orange malice into the blinking light of the kerosine lamp; a clothes rack, a little table and chair: all isorangy here; on an orange background in a brick line pass by welldefined: squares, squares; a multihumped clothes rack hangs there; dumbly; three doors: to the dining room, to the kitchen, to the dumb corridor; there hangs, gathering dust, a curtain on the kitchen door of such green color, that it ails one to look, closing the door glass, so as not to see the kitchen; and a greasy little mattress for Alma, who burrows there the bones and fat into the hair scratched by paws; it used to be: in a coonskin coat and sealskin cap Papa crawled in, rumbling in his bootees, bent over Almochka: on the yellow-orange background of the wallpaper, illumined by the spectacles of a blinking flame; Almochka was gnawing a tough yellow bone; andshe looked bloodily askance: and Papa, having put on his spectacles, said: This isa proper doggy occupation: reading newspapers! These bones, Dunyasha, in a dogs life arethe same thing as newspaper reading for humans. Almochka nibbles on a bone, andknows everything. Behind Papa hurried Mama, in a rotonde and in a tiny plush cap with a toque (an enormous one!); looking askance at her, he indicated with a finger, the big onethe little mattress: And Almochka, you know,is reading the newspapers! At this bit of knowledge Mamas birthmark jumped under the little veil (the white one, with the black beauty spots like flies); the little eyes, clouding up, were covered with patches of ice: she squeezed with selfspiritedness her rounding chin to the neck which was filling out, puffing up importantly; it seemed: she would make an: Oof! These jokes of Papa offend her, grieve her; with one hand leaning on Dunyashas back, pulling on her fur, soft bootee, she clipped the silence like with scissors: It smells again! It smells doggy! What a stench! I have told you, Dunyasha, that you have to air out the mattress: on the snow with it, with snow! Andthe door was dissolving; and Papa ran away to there, into the darkness, letting his nose down into the fur; and Mama ran out after him lowering her nose in the fur; the cold wafted through the doors: like a heap of howling times; multilegged peoplechases were borne along the Arbat: borne along are the not so loud thunder of events into the enormous darknesses of deadly gloom: tired time limps from the hours; it is lamelegged!  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