If they had been paying attention, however, those involved in the play, including Fanny, might have noticed that even Inchbald’s depoliticized version offers insights into definitions of women and the power of courtship and seduction plots, into the role of the clergy, and, finally, into the tensions between parents and children.  The figure of Amelia was the subject of particular controversy.  Inchbald claimed that “the forward and unequivocal manner in which she announces her affection to her lover, in the original, would have been revolting to an English audience” (478).  Penny Gay contends that Inchbald “subsumes Amelia into the tradition of the witty and flirtatious English ingénue” (113).  But Inchbald’s “indelicately blunt” (478) language was to others like Plumptre and Porter the language of Nature.  Plumptre, in particular, argues that Kotzebue’s Amelia has been converted from an “artless innocent Child of Nature” to “a forward Country Hoyden”; her virtues are “distorted and disguised, by a Pertness” which obscures “her benevolent Conduct” (v).  Julia Bertram’s angry rejection of the role seems almost to echo Plumptre’s language:  “‘as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the most disgusting to me.  I quite detest her.  An odious, little, pert, unnatural, impudent girl’” (136).  Even Mary Crawford, though she “accepted the part very readily” (138) later acknowledges that “‘[s]uch a forward young lady may well frighten the men’” (144).  What Inchbald described as the “whimsical insinuations” (478) of her Amelia suit Mary Crawford more than the artlessness of Kotzebue’s heroine would; indeed Amelia’s playfulness finds an echo in Mary Crawford’s “equivocal” (367) courtship of Edmund.  In fact, the Star’s description of the actress who played Amelia sounds much like Edmund’s image of Mary Crawford: 

 

Mrs. H. Johnston is so fascinating in her air and smile—her coquetry is so playful that even her errors please us. . . . [S]he plays the hoyden with so much grace, that we almost wish her to continue to trespass on truth, and please us by being wrong.  (qtd. in Pedley 307)

 

The emphasis for the Mansfield Players is, of course, on lovers’ vows, more specifically in this case on vows made by the heroine before she has been assured of the hero’s love.  Mary Crawford defines the role of Amelia in terms of that declaration of love, so that when a near stranger seems likely to play Anhalt, she plans to curtail their courtship scene:  “‘I can tell Mr. Maddox, that I shall shorten some of his speeches, and a great many of my own, before we rehearse together.—It will be very disagreeable, and by no means what I expected’” (149).  Fanny’s understanding of that scene—“The whole subject of it was love”—overlooks anything other than the “marriage of love . . . described by the gentleman” or the “very little short of a declaration of love . . . made by the lady” (167).  Fanny has “read, and read the scene again,” but her “many painful, many wondering emotions,” her obsessive imaginings, her “longing and dreading to see how they would perform” (167), all prevent clear interpretation.  For example, Amelia’s unsought love for her tutor, a love that bridges the divide of class, mirrors Fanny’s own secret love for Edmund.  Fanny also misses the scene’s emphasis on gratitude.  She misses (as apparently do they all) Anhalt’s description of an unhappy marriage motivated by “convenience, and fair appearance joined to folly and ill-humour,” which “forge the fetters” and “gall with their weight the married pair” (505)—a marriage that looks much like the one Maria and Mr. Rushworth will contract.  Intriguingly, both Plumptre’s and Thompson’s translations clarify what attends such “convenience”:  as Plumptre’s version has it, “if motives of mere convenience (what the world generally terms prudence) if parental authority, rashness or caprice, tie the bonds of hymen, then, alas!” (36).  The other marriages Sir Thomas wishes for—of his niece to Henry Crawford, of his son to Mary—are perhaps imaged here.

 

The play’s other female lead highlights the dangerous relationship between the courtship and seduction plots as well as their effects on women.  The figure of Agatha, in Fanny’s mind “unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty” (137), ought to serve as a warning of the importance of feminine chastity.  Some contemporary readers objected to the share this fallen woman has in the play’s happy conclusion.  Responding to similar objections to the moral retrieval and return to the home of an adulteress in Kotzebue’s The Stranger, Inchbald, however, argued, “To reconcile to the virtuous spectator this indecorum, most calamitous woes are first depicted as the consequence of illicit love” (4).  Inchbald locates Agatha’s sin in vanity succeeded by physical pleasure:  “His flattery made me vain, and his repeated vows—Don’t look at me, dear Frederick! . . . Oh! oh! my son! I was intoxicated by the fervent caresses of a young, inexperienced, capricious man, and did not recover from the delirium till it was too late” (487).  (In Plumptre’s translation, Wilhelmina’s education is the source of her fall:  “my ideas and capacities developed themselves, but so also did my vanity” [9]).  Maria Bertram’s plot springs from such causes.  The errant heroine of Lovers’ Vows is punished by exclusion from society and even from the household of her parents, the death of her father, poverty, illness, almost starvation.  Agatha’s marriage, the climax of the plot’s happy conclusion, represents restitution rather than reward, the reformation of the patriarch and the community.

 

Kotzebue’s play also validates Edmund Bertram’s argument for the significance of the clergy.  Mary Crawford’s sly invitation to Edmund—“‘If any part could tempt you to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt’” (144-45)—tries to draw him into lover’s vows under cover of assuming his prospective profession.  Edmund’s rejection looks forward to his father’s discomfort on stage:  “‘I should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting’” (145, my italics).  As his answer suggests, the role is a significant one.  Anhalt is the voice of conscience in the play, a role that Edmund undertakes at Mansfield with less success.  The pastor powers the play’s main plot, searching out Agatha, effecting the meeting between Frederick and his father, convincing the Baron to act upon his sense of duty.  Through Anhalt’s agency, the domestic and the communal are reformed as the play’s concluding marriages breach the barriers of class.  While in Mansfield Park domestic and communal reform come through the recognition of the marginal, the incorporation of the poor cousin as daughter, and the validation of the domestic ideals of love, thoughtfulness, generosity, and constancy against the self-interest and vanity of the world, Edmund is not the agent of those reforms.  Like the other members of the theatrical troupe, and despite the vows involved in his own ordination, Edmund can focus only on his participation in the love plot.

 

The audience—as well as the potential audience—for the Mansfield production of Lovers’ Vows also overlooks the play’s exploration of intergenerational conflict, parental tyranny, and filial disobedience.  In Kotzebue’s play, relationships between parents and children can distort moral action and identity:  the Baron’s desertion of Agatha is in part a concession to maternal pressure; Agatha is blamed for her father’s death; Frederick’s anger at his father finds an accidental outlet in a physical attack on the Baron (who then imprisons his son).  Despite such a pattern, however, this play is not as Jacobinical as Southey’s words might suggest.  The Baron is no tyrant:  despite his desire for his daughter to marry Count Cassel, he (unlike Sir Thomas) never encourages her to marry against her feelings.  And while Amelia’s declaration of her love for Anhalt seems to challenge gender restrictions, her marriage is finally in her father’s gift.  Although paternal power in Lovers’ Vows is chastised, as at Mansfield Park, it is ultimately reformed and reinstated.

 

The Mansfield players, however, ignore such issues as they adapt the dramatic and erotic energies of the play to their own purposes.  At Ecclesford, Lord Ravenscroft was to play the Baron to Lady Ravenscroft’s Agatha.  At Mansfield, however, erotic energy is directed inter-generationally:  Henry Crawford, as Frederick, maneuvers to ensure that Maria, the object of his seduction, will play his mother; Yates, claiming the role of the Baron, argues for Julia to play his daughter; even the roles filled by Edmund and Mary Crawford, those of Anhalt and Amelia, depict a tutor/pupil relationship (explicitly connected in the translations of Plumptre, Porter and Thompson to Rousseau’s La Nouvelle Heloise).  Onstage at Mansfield Park, maternal, paternal, or filial love serves merely to mask erotic desire.  Such an adaptation suggests that the real struggles at Mansfield Park are those between generations.

 

 

Lovers’ Vows, despite its contentious history, has much to teach those at Mansfield Park.  It’s worth noting, then, that when Sir Thomas “wipe[s] away every outward memento of what had been, even to the destruction of every unbound copy of ‘Lovers’ Vows’ in the house, for he was burning all that met his eye” (191, my italics), he burns only the editions used by the actors.  The bound copies of the play (whether by Inchbald, Plumptre, Porter, or Thompson), toward which the narrative gestures, remain in the library of Mansfield Park.  Clearly, at least for Sir Thomas, the problem is in the acting.

 

Why?  There was a cultural unease connected to the theater and acting during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries to which it would be useful to attend.  The theater building itself, with its hierarchies of seating, modeled the social structures of its world.  Although by the end of the eighteenth century, fashionable members of the audience were no longer seated on the stage, the drama still offered what Lisa A. Freeman calls “a theater of interaction” (5), an experience in which the audience responded (with shouts, applause, laughter, tears, conversation) to what transpired both on stage and in the spaces occupied by the audience:  “No single controlling gaze regulated the space of performance . . .” (5).  Meanings were various and communal.  William B. Worthen argues that “the eighteenth-century spectator’s sudden, public reaction to the events on the stage confirmed both his engagement with dramatic action and his active participation in the theatrical community.  The brassy theatricality of the spectators’ behavior revealed their sympathetic involvement with one another. . . . By responding both to the actors’ and to its own performance, the audience certified the project of the sentimental theater[,] . . . producing the kind of harmonious social pleasure that Shaftesbury, among others, thought ‘superior to any other’” (83).

 

Attending a play, as this kind of audience participation suggests, was not an experience of giving oneself over to the illusion of watching real people feel and act on the other side of a transparent “fourth wall.”  The experience of the drama was discontinuous:  members of the audience would come and go throughout the performance (as the example of Henry Tilney suggests).  Actors’ performances were structured around “points,” moments of high emotion in which a speech or a scene would be isolated from the action, delivered to the audience, and repeated as many times as the audience required.  Such tactics reflected a particular, and non-novelistic, understanding of character.  As Freeman argues, the goal “was not for the actor to transcend character, nor character the actor, but rather for each to be constituted in performance as visible planes of ‘character’ that competed with and against one another for control over meaning” (36).

 

Such planes would include the complex identity of the actor or actress assuming the role.  Actors often specialized in certain “lines of business,” lines which came to define the expectations of their audience (Freeman 28).  When Henry Crawford tells Julia Bertram that “‘[t]ragedy may be your choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chooses you’” (135), he invokes conventional practice to mask his own dramatic designs.  The personal life of the actor or actress constituted another part of this complex identity.  According to Freeman, “eighteenth-century audiences were not only obsessively aware of aspects of an actor’s or actress’s personal life . . . [but] they were also persistently encouraged to draw associations between those private lives and the roles players played.  Audiences, in short, were keenly aware of how public and private ‘character’ either converged or diverged in performance” (39).  Edmund Bertram’s comparison of the “‘real acting, good hardened real acting’” of professionals to “‘the raw efforts of those who have not been bred to the trade,—a set of gentlemen and ladies, who have all the disadvantages of education and decorum to struggle through’” (124) suggests the potential conflicts between the identities of the Mansfield actors and the roles they would assume. 

 

Moreover, as Kristina Straub has shown, audience interest in the player’s identity, particularly in the case of women, was defined in sexual terms.  Henry Crawford’s attempt to cajole Julia into good humor by recommending the part of Amelia implies such a convergence between actress and role:  “‘Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress by profession.  It requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not.  It requires a gentlewoman—a Julia Bertram’” (135).  Indeed, Henry Crawford’s language echoes that of the Star’s review of Mrs. H. Johnston:  “The character of Amelia is that of arch simplicity; the most elegant, but perhaps the most difficult character in nature faithfully to pourtray” (qtd. in Pedley 307).  Fanny, who has had no experience of seeing a play, can in one instance at least keep her feeling about the performer and the performance separate:  “As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all. . . . She did not like him as a man, but she must admit him to be the best actor” (165).  Fanny’s concerns about Maria’s acting, however, reveal the fears of the convergence (especially in sexual terms) between actress and role:  “Maria she also thought acted well—too well . . .” (165).

 

This fear of such a convergence is based on certain eighteenth-century notions of acting.  Worthen describes and quotes from a letter by Garrick that defines the relationship between actor and role: 

 

when the actor performs on the stage, his ‘Genius’ should enable him to be ‘transported beyond himself’ into a passionate synchrony with his character’s feelings. . . . Garrick’s actor uses feeling, but not in pursuit of personal authenticity.  Instead, his feeling motivates an autonomous dramatic role, gives the role’s passion a significant stage reference in the actor’s real emotions.  The actor’s feeling sustains the independent, universal signs [e.g., gestures] that stimulate the audience’s emotional response.  Rather than presenting himself to the audience through the prism of his role, Garrick’s actor uses personal feeling to substantiate the role’s passions; he realizes only ‘the feelings of his Character’ to the audience. (94-95)

 

But the problem, of course, is that the Mansfield players—with the possible exception of Henry Crawford—are not real, hardened actors.  They have difficulty distinguishing between the feelings of actor and character.  When Julia interrupts the rehearsal to announce her father’s arrival, “Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to Agatha’s narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart” (175).  Julia recognizes, however, that “he still kept his station and retained her sister’s hand” (175).  The indefinite nature of the masculine pronoun reference (is he still Frederick or now Henry Crawford?) is contrasted to the specificity of “her sister’s hand.”  Julia’s angry response suggests that she attributes the gesture to the man rather than to the character enacted.  Maria, too, defines the he in a way that suggests her own emotional implication:  “Henry Crawford’s retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment of such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and anxiety” (176).  But when Henry Crawford reveals his plans to leave Mansfield, the gesture is converted back to an expression of stage passion in heightened language that suggests its connection to the sentimental drama:  “The hand which had so pressed her’s to his heart!—The hand and the heart were alike motionless and passive now!” (193).

 

            Such issues were given particular prominence by the enthusiasm for private theatricals.  According to Sybil Rosenfeld, “The craze reached its climax in the 1780’s, declined somewhat in the 1790’s, increased again slightly in the first decade of the 19th century and, after that, petered out” (11).  Jane Austen’s own family, of course, participated in fashion, putting on plays from 1782 through 1789 (Byrne 1-14).  At the highest levels of society, aristocratic thespians built theatres, hired professionals to design and construct scenery, to devise elaborate costumes, and to direct.  Great, often ruinous, sums were spent (as Tom Bertram’s investment in green baize, pink and blue satin, carpentry work, and a scene-painter from London suggests).  Tickets were issued, and performances were even reviewed in the newspapers, as suggested by Mr. Yates’s disappointed hopes of being “so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, . . . which would of course have immortalized the whole party for at least a twelvemonth!” (121).  The problems endemic to amateur productions plagued these.  Like Mr. Rushworth, some amateurs could not remember their lines; like Mrs. Grant they sometimes laughed or, more often, like Tom Bertram were incomprehensible or inaudible (Rosenfeld 18-19).  The question of what to do for women was answered in a variety of ways:  the Earl of Barrymore hired professional actresses for his productions; at Richmond House, ladies related to the Duke and Duchess performed (Rosenfeld 19-30, 35). 

 

The fashionable and genteel often agreed with Henry Crawford that ladies and gentlemen possessed superior abilities to act the manners and emotions appropriate to their own class.  Horace Walpole asked, “Who should act genteel comedy perfectly but people of fashion that have sense?  Actors and actresses can only guess at the tone of high life, and cannot be inspired by it” (qtd. in Rosenfeld 42).  The Morning Chronicle admired in the Richmond House players the “obvious desire to assimilate, and an apparent ardour to assume and to exhibit, the very feelings the characters are actuated by” (qtd. in Rosenfeld 51).  But such assimilation, such ardor were also matters for concern.  The Oracle in 1798 warned that “the open embraces of the Actor are exchanged without difficulty for the private of the Seducer” (qtd. in Rosenfeld 12).  A decade earlier, the Public Advertiser had worried that “the necessary liberties of the stage are unfavourable to delicacy; and the giving and receiving promiscuous embraces, tend principally to the interests of the gentlemen at Doctors-Commons.  Parents who regard the future and honour of their children should hesitate at their engagements in private plays” (qtd. in Rosenfeld 12).  Surely Sir Thomas Bertram is alive to such concerns!

 

            We hear much of the infectious influence of the theatricals at Mansfield Park.  As Julia observes, “‘the Mansfield Theatricals would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly’” (148-49).  Rehearsals are spread “‘all over the house’”:  Mr. Yates “‘storm[s] away in the dining room’”; “‘those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick,’” occupy the theatre (169); Mary Crawford and Edmund find their separate ways to the East Room.  Even Lady Bertram “‘mean[s] to look in at their rehearsals’” (167).  Her interest, however, is deferred by Mrs. Norris’s material advice to “‘stay till the curtain is hung’”:  “‘there is very little sense in a play without a curtain—and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up into very handsome festoons’” (167).  That curtain—mentioned five times—proclaims the drama’s essential artifice:  framing the action, signaling beginning and end.  It conceals what happens behind it, but above all it reminds actors and audience that what happens in the space it defines is play.

 

The dispersion of the rehearsal space in the absence of the curtain is symptomatic of a larger problem:  these players are not, like Garrick’s actor, “transported beyond [themselves].”  Instead, the self’s desires become the motive for the dramatic character’s words and actions.  Actors and audience alike lose their awareness of dramatic artifice.  When Edmund, for example, discovers Mary Crawford in the East Room,

 

[t]hey must now rehearse together.  Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it—till the lady, not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer. . . . In watching them [Fanny] forgot herself; and agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund’s manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help. . . . [S]he was inclined to believe their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling in it, as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to herself.  (170)

 

As the verbs proposed, urged, entreated suggest, this action is less performance than a stage of Edmund’s courtship of Miss Crawford.  Fanny’s agitation suggests that in her eyes the “nature and feeling” are attributable not to the characters, or even to the acting, but to Edmund and Mary themselves.

 

Fanny is not immune to the theatrical “‘infection’” (184).  Edmund asserts that “‘[w]e have all been more or less to blame, . . . every one of us, excepting Fanny.  Fanny is the only one who has . . . been consistent’” (187).  Fanny, however, is more central to the Mansfield Theatricals than Edmund allows.  Although she hasn’t read Lovers’ Vows before its selection, during the weeks of rehearsal—through obsessive re-readings, the “innocent enjoyment” of watching and listening (165), and other forms of participation—she comes to know much of it by heart.  Through her prompting of Mr. Rushworth, for instance, she not only “learn[s] every word of his part herself” (166) but presumably assumes the roles of the other characters on stage with him:  the Baron, Amelia, and Frederick.  Maria notices that Fanny knows the role of Cottager’s Wife, characterized by Tom as a part “‘with a good deal of spirit’” (134), well enough to “‘say every word of it . . . for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places’” (172).  And of course when Mary Crawford comes to Fanny to rehearse, Fanny’s demurral that she “‘must read the part, for [she] can say very little of it’” (169) suggests an intimate and oral relationship to the roles of both Amelia and Anhalt.  Fanny indeed is revealed as a not so “quiet auditor of the whole” (136).  No wonder, then, that her imagination is affected by the conventions of the sentimental theatre, as, for instance, she “knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled” (185) in Edmund’s defense.

 

 

Though Sir Thomas’s return seems to end the theatricals episode, “to wipe away every outward memento of what had been” (191), it doesn’t quite.  For Lovers’ Vows is succeeded by another performance which Sir Thomas authorizes, Henry Crawford’s dramatic reading of Henry VIII.  As Lady Bertram declares, “and strongly too[,] ‘It was really like being at a play’” (338), and the effect of Henry Crawford’s reading is registered on Fanny’s body.  Kotzebue gives way to Shakespeare, the German stranger replaced by the British national poet.  In 1811, the year that Austen began writing Mansfield Park, Samuel Whitbread, one of the new managers of Drury Lane, announced that “his theatre would be devoted to the canon of British drama, Shakespeare pre-eminently (there would be an end to German imports such as the sentimental plays of Kotzebue)” (Bate 106).  Perhaps such a strategy, at least in Austen’s terms, was a distinction without a difference.  The problem of the Mansfield theatricals is not what play is chosen or even whether acting is dangerous or wrong.  The problem is that the inhabitants of Mansfield are neither attentive enough as readers, nor “hardened” enough as actors, nor acute enough as audience.  The readerly audience of Mansfield Park must pass a similar test, must read the theatricals episode alive to the complex and contending voices and texts from which Austen constructs her fictional world.

 

 

NOTE

 

1.  At the 2006 JASNA AGM in Tucson, four members presented Act One, Scene One and Act Three, Scene Two of Inchbald’s adaptation.  My thanks to Teri Fontes (Landlady), Jane Davis (Agatha), Baronda Bradley (Amelia), and Mike Deal (Frederick and Anhalt), who taught us what pleasure that play might give.

 

Works Cited

 

Austen, Jane.  Mansfield Park.  Ed. R. W. Chapman.  3^rd ed.  Oxford: OUP, 1934. 

Bate, Jonathan.  “The Romantic Stage.”  Shakespeare: An Illustrated Stage History.  Ed. Jonathan Bate and Russell Jackson.  Oxford: OUP, 1996.  92-111.

Bode, Christoph.  “Unfit for an English Stage? Inchbald’s Lovers’ Vows and Kotzebue’s Das Kind der Liebe.”  European Romantic Review 16 (2005): 297-309.

Byrne, Paula.  Jane Austen and the Theatre.  London: Hambledon, 2002.

Freeman, Lisa A.   Character’s Theater: Genre and Identity on the Eighteenth-Century English Stage.  Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 2002.

Gay, Penny.  Jane Austen and the Theatre.  Cambridge: CUP, 2002.

Inchbald, Elizabeth.  Lovers’ Vows.  5^th ed. London, 1798.  Mansfield Park.  Ed. R. W. Chapman.  3^rd ed.  Oxford: OUP, 1934.  475-538.

_____.  Remarks [on the German drama].  The British Theatre.  With Biographical and Critical Remarks, By Mrs. Inchbald.  25 vols.  London: Longman, n.d.  v. 23.  7-10.

Kirkham, Margaret.  Jane Austen, Feminism and Fiction.  New York: Methuen, 1986.

Kucich, Greg.  “‘A Haunted Ruin’: Romantic Drama, Renaissance Tradition, and the Critical Establishment.’”  British Romantic Drama: Historical and Critical Essays.  Ed. Terence Allan Hoagwood and Daniel P. Watkins.  Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson UP, 1993.  56-83.

Moody, Jane.  “Suicide and Translation in the Dramaturgy of Elizabeth Inchbald and Anne Plumptre.”  Women in British Romantic Theatre: Drama, Performance, and Society, 1790-1840.  Ed. Catherine Burroughs.  Cambridge: CUP, 2000.  257-84.

Pedley, Colin.  “‘Terrific and Unprincipled Compositions’: The Reception of Lovers’ Vows and Mansfield Park.”  Philological Quarterly 74 (1995): 297-316.

Plumptre, Anne, trans.  The Natural Son.  By August von Kotzebue.  London, 1798.

Porter, Stephen, trans.  Lovers’ Vows, or The Child of Love.  By August von Kotzebue.  London, 1798.

Rosenfeld, Sybil.  Temples of Thespis: Some Private Theatres and Theatricals in England and Wales, 1700-1820.  London: Society for Theatre Research, 1978.

Stokoe, F. W.  German Influence in the English Romantic Period 1788-1818.  New York: Russell, 1963.

Straub, Kristina.  Sexual Suspects: Eighteenth-Century Players and Sexual Ideology.  Princeton: PUP, 1992.

Thompson, Benjamin, trans.  Lovers’ Vows; or, The Natural Son.  By August von Kotzebue.  London, 1800.

Wordsworth, Jonathan.  Ancestral Voices: Fifty Books from the Romantic Period.  London: Woodstock, 1991.

Wordsworth, William, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge.  Lyrical Ballads.  Ed. R. L. Brett and A. R. Jones.  2^nd ed.  London: Routledge, 1991.

Worthen, William B.  The Idea of the Actor.  Princeton: PUP, 1984.

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