# Varick's Lady o' Dreams

Extracted from Scribner's magazine, vol. 35 1904, pp. 563-571. Accompanying illustrations by F. V. DuMond omitted.
VARICK'S LADY O' DREAMS
By Elizabeth Jordan
VARICK laid down the book with which he had beguiled an hour of the night, turned off the electric light in the shaded globe that hung above his head, pulled the sheets a little nearer his chin, reversed his pillow that he might rest his cheek more gratefully on the cooler linen, stretched, yawned, and composed himself to slumber with an absolutely untroubled conscience.
He was an eminently practical and almost rudely healthy young man, with an unreflecting belief in the existence of things he had seen, and considerable doubt concerning those which he had not seen. In his heart he regarded sentiment as the expression of a flabby nature in a feeble body. Once or twice he had casually remarked to his intimates that he supposed he'd fall in love some time—other chaps did; and he had also, in an unusually candid moment, given to a choice company of his chums the benefit of his conviction that when a fellow did care for a woman, and got her, he ought to treat her properly, by George! and see that she had amusements and was not neglected as lots of 'em did neglect their wives. His friends had dropped all other interests of the moment to solicitously inquire the name of the celestial being who was inspiring these uplifting theories. Varick had first flouted the idea with a laugh, and then carefully explained that while women, collectively, were "all right," as individuals he had "no use for 'em"; after which he had smiled his own surprisingly seraphic smile and returned to the cleaning of the various guns on which his deepest affections were then centred. From all this it will be seen that Varick was not the person to have unusual psychological experiences.
For a few moments, on this particular night, his thoughts turned pleasantly from one to another of the quiet delights of the morning's fishing. The book he had dropped was Fly, Rod and Tackle, and, like all enthusiastic anglers, he pined to give the author the benefit of his piscatorial experiences and of a few discoveries he himself had made as to certain flies and their action under given conditions. He had fished all the morning and played golf all the afternoon, and he had finished the day with a swim in the club pool, subsequently appearing at dinner with a showily red face and very wet hair, to argue fiercely over the soup concerning the merits of a horse his cousin wanted him to buy. Then he had played a few rubbers of bridge at five cents a point, and had retired to his own rooms bearing some nineteen dollars in good American money reluctantly bestowed upon him by his opponents in the game. Altogether it had been a fairly pleasant day, very much like most of the other days in his untroubled life.
Varick stretched his athletic young body luxuriously between the sheets, yawned once more, stared in the semi-darkness, heard a distant clock strike two, and wondered mildly why he was not more sleepy. There was a dim light burning in the hall beyond his bedroom, and by its reflection, through the transom over the door, he could see quite plainly the various pieces of furniture around him—his dressing-case, with its array of silver toilet articles, the solid front of his chiffonier, the carved arms of his favorite lounging chair, even the etchings and prints on the walls. Suddenly, as he looked at these familiar objects, a light haze fell over them, giving him for an instant the impression that a gauze curtain had been dropped between them and his eyes. They slowly melted away, and in their place he saw the streets of a tiny village in some foreign country which he did not know. A moment later, in what seemed at the time a perfectly natural transition from his bed in an Adirondack club-house, he was walking up the streets of the little town, in correct tourist attire, looking in vain for a familiar landmark, and with a strange sinking of the heart. How he got there, or why he was there, was equally incomprehensible to him. It was high noon of a warm summer day, and the red roofs of the old buildings seemed to glow in the heat. Before him, at the end of the street down which he was walking, was a public square where marketing was going on in the open. It was crowded with men and women in picturesque peasant costumes he did not recognize, though he had travelled a great deal. As he drew nearer he heard them speaking, but discovered that their tongue was as unknown to him as their garb. He knew French, German, and Italian well; he had, in addition,a smattering of Spanish, and was familiar with the accents of Slavic tongues, But this babel that met his ears was something new. Taken in connection with the foregoing experience, the discovery sent a cold chill down the spinal column of Mr. Lawrence Varick, better known to his friends as "Laurie." For the first time in his debonair life he was afraid, and admitted it inwardly, with a sudden whitening of the lips.
"It's so infernally queer," he told himself uneasily. "If I could remember how I got here, or if I knew anything about the place——"
"Have you classified them?" asked a voice at his elbow. It was feminine, contralto, and exquisitely modulated. The words were English, but spoken with a slight foreign accent. With a leap of the heart Varick turned and looked at the speaker.
She was young, he saw at once—twenty-two, twenty-three, possibly twenty-four. He inclined to the latter theory as he observed her perfect poise and self-possession. She was exquisitely dressed; he realized that despite the dimness of masculine perception on such points, and, much more clearly, saw that she was beautiful. She was small, and the eyes she raised to his were large and deeply brown, with long black lashes that matched in color the wavy hair under her coquettish hat. As he stared at her, with surprise, relief, and admiration struggling in his boyishly handsome face, she smiled, and in that instant the phlegmatic young man experienced a new sensation. His own white teeth flashed as he smiled back at her. Then he remembered that it is customary for gentlemen to reply when ladies ask a question.
"I—I—beg your pardon," he stammered, "a—a thousand times. But to tell you the truth I'm—I'm horribly confused this morning. I—I don't seem, somehow, to place myself yet. And I can't understand what these people say. So, when you spoke English it was such a relief——"
He stopped suddenly and turned a rich crimson. It had occurred to him that this incoherent statement was not quite the one to win interest and admiration from a strange and exceedingly attractive woman. What would she think of him? Perhaps that he was intoxicated, or insane. Varick's imagination, never lively, distinguished itself during the next few seconds by the stirring possibilities it presented to his mind. He grew redder, which was very unfortunate, and shuffled miserably from one foot to the other, until he noticed that she was looking at him with a glance that was entirely dignified yet very friendly. It had an oddly sympathetic quality in it as well. His spirits rose a trifle.
"You must think me an awful duffer," he murmured contritely. "I'm not always like this, I assure you."
"I know," she assented. "I understand, Walk on with me. Possibly I may be able to help you."
He bowed assent and the two walked toward the crowded square.
"You're awfully good," he said, feeling reassured, yet still boyish and embarrassed, "I don't want to be a nuisance, but if you'll just put me right, somehow—start me on a path that will lead me home——"
The entire idiocy of this struck him. He stopped again, then burst into his contagious youthful laughter, in which she instantly joined. The mellow contralto and the clear tenor formed a soft and pleasant duet, but Varick noticed that not a head in the crowd around them turned their way, nor did an eye of all the peasant throng give them a glance. He spoke of this to his companion as they continued their walk
"The most surprising thing to me in all this—unusualness," he said, "is the cool manner in which these beggars ignore us. You know how such people gape usually; but there's not a soul of all these people who seems to know we're here."
She looked at him with a gentle amusement and sympathy in her brown eyes.
"That is not surprising," she said quietly. "For you know we are not here—really."
Varick stopped for the second time and stared at her, with a repetition of that new and annoying sinking in the region of his heart. Her words were certainly disconcerting, but she herself was delightfully human and most reassuringly natural. She had started on, and he tried to fall into her mood as he overtook her.
"Where are we, then?" he asked, with a short and not especially mirthful laugh,
Her smooth brow wrinkled for a moment.
"I do not know," she said frankly. "That is, I do not know this place, where we think we are, though I have been here before, and the experience does not frighten me now. But I know where we really are. You are asleep somewhere in America, and I—but, oh, my dear, my dear, you're going to wake!"
The clock that was somewhere struck three. Varick, sitting up in his bed with eyes staring into the darkness, saw again his familiar room, the dim light, the silver, the dressing-case, the pictures. He sprang to the door opening into the hall, and tried it. It was bolted, as he had left it. So was the other door leading into his sitting-room. The darkness around him still seemed full of the refrain of the words he had just heard—where?
"Oh, my dear, my dear, you're going to wake!" And her eyes—her smile——
Varick got into bed again, in a somewhat dazed condition with a tremor running through it. Very slowly he straightened himself out, very slowly he pulled up the bedclothes. Then he swore solemnly into the obscurity of the room.
"Well, of—all—the—dreams!" he commented helplessly.
As the months passed, after Varick got back to town and into the whirl of city life, he recalled his dream frequently, at first, then more rarely, and finally, not at all. It was almost a year later when, one night, lying half awake, he saw again the fine, transparent, screen-like veil enshroud the objects in his bedroom. It was winter, and a great log was burning in the large fireplace. He had tried to choke the flames with ashes before he went to bed, but the wood had blazed up again and he had lain quiet, awaiting slumber and blinking indifferently at the light. His bedroom overlooked Fifth Avenue. There was a large club-house just opposite his house, and cabs and carriages still came and went. Varick heard the slam of carriage doors, the click of horses' hoofs on the wet asphalt, and congratulated himself on the common sense which had inspired him to go to bed at eleven instead of joining the festive throng across the street. He had dutifully spent the morning in his father's offices, and then, with a warming sense of virtue, had run out of town for a late luncheon and a trial of hunters. To-night he was pleasantly tired, but not drowsy. When the curtain fell before his surroundings, and he saw them melting imperceptibly into others quite foreign to them, he at once recalled the similar experience of the year before. With a little quickening of his steady heartbeats, he awaited developments.
Yes, here was the old town, with its red roofs, its quaint architecture, its crowded, narrow, picturesque streets. But this time they seemed almost deserted, and the whole effect of the place was bleak and dreary, The leaves had dropped from the trees, the flowers had faded, the vines that covered the cottage walls were brown and bare. He was pleasantly conscious of the warmth of a sable-lined coat he had brought from Russia two years before. He thrust his gloved hands deep into its capacious pockets and walked on, his eyes turning to right and left as he went. At intervals he saw a bulky masculine figure, queerly dressed, turn a corner or enter a house. Once or twice one came his way and passed him, but no one looked at him or spoke. For a moment Varick was tempted to knock at one of the inhospitably closed doors and ask for information and directions, but something—he did not know what—restrained him.
When she appeared it was as suddenly as she had come before, with no warning, no approach. She was at his elbow—a bewitching thing of furs and feminine beauty, French millinery and cordiality. She held out her small hand with a fine cameraderie.
"Is it not nice?" she asked at once. "I was afraid I should arrive first and have to wait alone. I would not have liked that."
He held her hand close, looking down at her from his great height, his gray eyes shining into hers.
"Then you knew—you were coming?" he asked slowly.
"Not until the moment before I came. But when I saw the curtain fall——"
"You saw that, too? A thin, gauzy thing, like a transparency?"
"Yes."
He relapsed into silence for a moment, as he unconsciously adapted his stride to hers, and they walked on together as naturally as if it were an every-day occurrence.
"What do you make of it all?" he at length asked.
She shrugged her shoulders with a little foreign gesture which seemed to him, even then, very characteristic.
"I do not know. It frightened me—a little—at first. Now it does not, for it always ends and I awake—at home."
"Where is that?"
She hesitated.
"I may not tell you," she said slowly. "I do not quite know why, but I may not. Possibly you may know some time. You, I think, are an American."
He stared hard at her, his smooth face taking on a strangely solemn expression.
"You mean to say," he persisted, "that this is all a dream—that you and I, instead of being here, are really asleep somewhere, in different continents?"
She nodded.
"We are asleep," she said, "in different continents, as you say. Whether we are dreaming or whether our two souls are taking a little excursion through space—oh, who shall say? Who can question the wonderful things which happen in this most wonderful world? I have ceased to question, but I have also ceased to fear."
He made no reply. Somewhere, in the back of his head, lay fear—a very definite, paralyzing fear—that something was wrong with him or with her or with them both. Instead of being in the neutral border-land of dreams, had he not perhaps passed the tragic line dividing the normal mind from the insane? She seemed to read his thoughts, and her manner became more gentle, almost tender.
"Is it so very dreadful?" she asked softly. "We are together, you know, my friend. Would it not be worse to wander about alone?"
With a great effort he pulled himself together.
"Infinitely," he said, with gratifying conviction. "And you're—you're a trump, you know. I'm ashamed of acting like such a hound. If you'll bear with me I'll try from now on to be more like a man and less like a fretful ghost."
She clapped her hands.
"Capital!" she cried. "I knew you would—what is the word?—oh, yes—adapt yourself. And it is only for a little while. You will wake very soon. But you ought to enjoy it while it lasts. There are many amusing things about it all."
Varick reflected grimly that it was not the "amusing things" which occasioned his perturbation, but he kept his reflection to himself and smiled down at her sunnily.
"For example," she continued, "as we really do not exist here, and as we are not visible to these people, we cannot do anything that will affect them in any way or attract their attention. Look at that!"
They were passing a small house whose front door, opening on the street, stood half open. Within they could see a stout woman standing at a tub and washing busily, and a little girl pouring hot water from a quaint kettle into a large pan full of soiled blue dishes. The pan stood near the edge of a wooden table, and the little girl was perched on a stool just high enough to bring her on a level with her work.
"You are, I am sure, a fine athlete," murmured the woman. "Or else your looks belie you," she added, with a roguish upward glance. "Yet with all your strength you cannot push that pan of dishes off the table."
Without a word, Varick passed through the doorway, strode into the house and up to the table. She followed him closely. He attempted to seize the pan in his powerful hands—and, to his horror, discovered that they held nothing. The pan remained on the table and the child was now unconcernedly washing the blue dishes, humming a little folk-song as she worked. As if to add to the irony of the situation, the small laborer quietly lifted the pan and moved it to a position she thought more convenient. This was the last touch. With a stifled murmur of intense exasperation, Varick put forth all his strength in a supreme effort. The pan fell, the water and broken blue dishes covering the floor. He sprang back and stood aghast, gazing at the havoc he had wrought.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear," murmured the voice at his side. "I never dreamed you could do it, or I would not have suggested it. Oh, oh, the poor little darling!"
For the stout woman at the tub had hastily dropped her work, crossed the room, and was soundly chastising the unhappy infant whom she supposed was responsible for the mischief. Varick caught her arm.
"Oh, I say," he cried, "this won't do at all! She didn't do it; it was all my fault, I'll pay for the things. Here—here——"
He fumbled in his pockets as he spoke and pulled out several gold pieces. But the fat arm of the old woman offered no resistance to his grasp, and the gold pieces did not exist for her. It was evident that she saw neither him nor them, nor the woman with him. With an unsparing hand she spanked the child, whose voice rose in shrill lamentations. Varick and his companion in guilt crept out of the room with a sense of great helplessness upon them, and he breathed a long breath of relief at finding himself—in bed, with a cold February sun shining in through his windows, and the faithful Parker at his side with the quieting announcement that his bath was ready.
One of Varick's boon companions in camp and hunting excursions was a distinguished New York specialist in nervous diseases. A day or two later Varick found it convenient to drop into this man's office and, quite casually, tell him the story of his dreams, giving it various light touches that he fondly imagined concealed the anxiety that lay beneath the recital. "Recurrent dreams," he then learned, were a very common human experience and not deserving of much attention.
"Don't think about it," said his friend. "Of course, if you worry over it, you'll be dreaming it all the time. Send this 'personally conducted tour' to me if you don't like it. I don't mind meeting pretty women who are 'dreams,' whether in the flesh or out of it."
As time went on and the dream did not return, Varick decided that he would not mind, either. He thought of her a great deal; he even longed for her. Eventually he deliberately tried to induce the dream by going to bed early, putting himself in the proper mental attitude, as he conceived it, and staring wide-eyed into his dimly lighted room. But only once in eighteen months was he even partly successful. Then he saw the haze, saw the familiar streets, saw her far, far ahead of him, and hurrying onward, saw her turn a sharp corner, caught one backward look from her dear brown eyes as she vanished—and awoke! He gave much thought to that look in the months which followed. He was a modest youth, singularly unconscious of his own charms; but the eloquent glance had conveyed to him a sense of longing—of more than longing.
Quite an interval elapsed before she came again. There was, first of all, the inevitable filmy effect, but, in the vision that succeeded it, instead of finding himself in the little town, he was in the depths of a great old forest, and in horrible agony. Some accident had occurred—he did not know what. He only knew that he was shot, suffering, dying! He groaned, and even as he writhed in a spasm of pain, he saw her sitting on the sward beside him. He turned glazed eyes on her. Her brown ones looked back into his with a great love and pity in their depths.
"Oh, my dear," she whispered, "I know it seems terribly hard to you. And because you think you suffer, it is almost as hard for you as if you did. But you are not really hurt, you know. You are not suffering. It is all in the dream. You are sound asleep, far, far away."
He forced a sardonic laugh from his stiff throat.
"Not this time," he managed to articulate. "Whatever the others may have been, this is no dream. This is the real thing—and death!"
She smoothed the hair back from his damp brow with a beautiful, caressing touch. He felt her fingers tremble.
"No," she said. "It is a dream, and almost over."
"Then will you stay with me," he gasped, "to the end?"
"Yes," she promised. "Try to bear it just a moment longer. Courage, dear heart! for already you are waking—you are waking—you—are—awake!"
He was, and it was daylight, and around him were the familiar objects of his own room. He wiped his forehead, which was cold and wet. He felt utterly exhausted.
"Stay with me to the end!"
If she only would! If he could find her—find her in this warm, human world, away from that ghastly border-land where they two met. For in that hour he knew he loved—what? A woman or a ghost? A creature of this world or a fantasy of the night? Wherever she was, whatever she was, he loved her and he wanted her. And in that hour of his agony her eyes had told that she loved him.
It was eight months before they met again. Varick's friends thought him changed, and quite possibly he was. The insouciant boy of twenty-eight had become a man, a sympathetic, serious, thoughtful man, still given to sports and out-door life, but more than all devoted to a search which had taken in no end of out-of-the-way European towns. He was sleeping in one of these one night (not the one, alas! he had not found that) when the veil, now so warmly welcome, fell for the fourth time.
He was in an exquisite Italian garden, a place all perfume and May breezes and flooding sunshine and over-arching blue sky. As he entered it he saw her coming to meet him, and he went forward to greet her with his pulses bounding and such a light in his eyes as no eyes but hers had ever seen there. Even in that supreme moment the wonderfully real atmosphere of it all impressed him. He heard a dry twig crack under his foot as he walked, and he recognized the different perfumes of the flowers around him—the heavy sweetness of a few belated orange blossoms, the delicate breath of the oleander, the reminiscent perfume of the rose. Then their hands met and their eyes, and each drew a long breath, and neither spoke for a moment. When Varick found words they were very commonplace ones, in use by many others in this weary world.
"Oh, my love, my love!" he said. And she, listening to them, with sudden tears in her brown eyes, seemed to find them wholly satisfactory and pleasing to the ear.
"It has been so long, so long," he gasped. "I began to think I was never to see you again."
They drifted side by side along a winding, rose-hedged path, past an old sundial, past a triumphant peacock strutting before his mild little mate, past a fountain whose spray flung out to them a welcome. She led the way with the accustomed step of one who knew and loved the place. They came to a marble seat, half hidden by a tangle of vines and scarlet blossoms, and sheltered by overhanging oleander branches, and she sat down and moved her skirts aside that he might sit close to her. Her brown eyes, raised now to his hungry gray ones, looked at him with the softened brilliance he had sometimes seen in those of a happy child.
"Should you have missed me?" she asked softly, "if you had never seen me again? Should you have been sorry?"
He drew a long breath.
"I love you," he said. "Whatever you are, wherever you come from, whatever all this means, I love you. I don't understand anything else, but I know that. It's the one sure thing, the one real thing, in all this tangle."
Without a word she put her hand in his. He could feel distinctly its cool, soft, exquisite texture. With an exclamation of delight he drew her toward him, but she held herself away, the expression of her beautiful face softening the effect of the recoil.
"Not yet, dear," she said gently. "We must be very careful. You do not understand. If you do anything abrupt or sudden you will wake—and then we shall be parted again, who knows for how long!"
There were tears in her eyes as she spoke. Seeing them, he buried his face in his hands and groaned, while the sense of his utter helplessness rolled over him like a flood.
"God!" he broke out, with sudden fierceness. "What devil's trick is this? It's not a dream. It can't be a dream. Here we are, two human beings in a human world—I'll swear it. Smell that oleander. Listen to that bird sing. Hear the trickle of that fountain. And yet you tell me that we are asleep!"
She laid her head in the curve of her arm, resting on the ivy-covered back of the low seat. Bending over her, he saw that her cheeks were wet. The sight made him desperate.
"Don't!" he cried hoarsely. "Don't do that! Tell me what is expected of me. Whatever it is, no matter how hard it is, or how long it takes, I'll do it."
She did not reply, but she made a quick little gesture with the hand nearest him. It signified hopelessness, almost despair, Darkness began to fall, and an early moon hung pale in the heavens. Somewhere in the thick bushes near them a nightingale began to sing. To Varick's excited fancy there was a heart-breaking pathos in the soft notes. They seemed to have been together, he and she, for a long time—for hours. He bent his head till it touched hers.
"But you love me?" he asked. She moved a little and wiped her eyes with an absurdly tiny, lace-edged square of linen, One corner, he noticed, bore an embroidered coronet.
"Yes," she said very quietly, "I love you."
Her tone as she spoke expressed such entire hopelessness that the full sense of her words did not at once come to him. When it did, slowly, sweetly, she was speaking again.
"But oh, dear heart, dear heart!" she broke out. "Why do we love? To what can love lead us—two poor shadows in a dream world, in which alone we can meet!"
He was silent. There seemed, somehow, nothing that he could say, though later he thought of many words with which he might have filled that throbbing silence. The dusk deepened around them. Off in the thicket the nightingale still warbled passionately, and now the stars began to come out over their heads, pale as yet against the warm blue of the heavens. Varick, sitting stiffly on the old marble bench, became conscious of an odd dizziness, and set his teeth with a sudden determination to show no evidence of it. She had risen and was moving about among the rose-bushes just behind them. Almost before he missed her she had returned, holding in her hand a beautiful salmon-hued rose, with a flame-colored, crumply heart. He had never before seen one like it. As she held it near him it exhaled an exquisitely reminiscent perfume—the perfume of old joys, old memories, and loves of long ago.
"Is it not beautiful?" she said. "It is called the noisette. Take it, dear, and keep it—for memory." Then, as he took it from her, her eyes widened in a sudden anguish of dread and comprehension.
"Oh, you're leaving me!" she said. "You're waking. Dearest, dearest, stay with me!"
The words and the look that accompanied them galvanized him into sudden action. He sprang to his feet, caught her in his arms, held her there, crushed her there, kissing her eyes, her hair, her exquisitely soft mouth.
"I will not leave you," he raved. "I swear I won't. I defy the devil that's back of this. I swear——" But she, too, was speaking now, and her words came to his ears as from a long, long distance, sobbingly, with a catch in the breath, but distinct.
"Alas!" she cried, "you have ruined everything. You have ruined everything! You will never see me again. Dearest, dearest——"
He awoke. His heart was thumping to suffocation, and he lay exhausted on his pillow. It was a dark morning, and a cold rain beat dismally against the window-panes. Gone were the Dream Woman, the Italian garden, the song of the nightingale, the perfume of flowers. How definite that perfume had been! He could smell it yet, all around him. It was like—what was it like? He became suddenly conscious of an unusual sensation in his hand, lying on the bed-spread. He glanced at it and then sat up with a sudden jerk that almost threw him off his balance. In his upturned palm was a rose—a salmon-colored rose, slightly crushed, but fresh and fragrant, with a flame-colored, crumply heart. Varick stared at it, shut his eyes, opened them, and stared again. It was still there, and with the discovery that it was, Varick became conscious of a prickling of the scalp, a chill along the spine. His brown face whitened,
"Well, by all the gods!" he gasped. "How did that thing get here?"
No one ever told him. Possibly no one could except the Dream Woman, and her he never saw again, so the mystery was unfathomable. He put the rose between the leaves of the Bible his mother had given him when he went to college, and which he had not happened to open since until that morning; and the rose became dry and faded as the years passed, quite as any other rose would have done.
Varick paid a second and quite casual visit to his medical friend, who scoffed at him rudely and urged him to go on a long hunting trip. He went and was singularly successful, and came back with considerable big game and a rich, brown complexion. When the doctor asked him whether he still awoke from his innocent slumbers to find his little hand full of pretty flowers, Varick swore naturally and healthfully, turned very red, and playfully thumped the medical man between the shoulders with a force that sent that gentleman's eye-glasses off his nose. But notwithstanding all these reassuring incidents, Varick has never married, and he remains deeply interested as to the source of that rose. He would be very grateful to anyone who could tell him where the thing came from. The nearest he ever came to this was when a man who knew a good deal about flowers once inspected the faded rose, at Varick's request, and listened to the description of how it looked when fresh.
"Why, yes," he said, "I know that variety. It grows in Italy, but I don't think it's known here. They call it the noisette!"
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1947, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 76 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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