Visions of Queer Martyrdom from John Henry Newman to Derek Jarman

By Dominic Janes

With all the heated debates around religion and homosexuality today, it might be hard to see the two as anything but antagonistic. But in this book, Dominic Janes reveals the opposite: Catholic forms of Christianity, he explains, played a key role in the evolution of the culture and visual expression of homosexuality and male same-sex desire in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. He explores this relationship through the idea of queer martyrdom—closeted queer servitude to Christ—a concept that allowed a certain degree of latitude for the development of same-sex desire.
            Janes finds the beginnings of queer martyrdom in the nineteenth-century Church of England and the controversies over Cardinal John Henry Newman’s sexuality. He then considers how liturgical expression of queer desire in the Victorian Eucharist provided inspiration for artists looking to communicate their own feelings of sexual deviance. After looking at Victorian monasteries as queer families, he analyzes how the Biblical story of David and Jonathan could be used to create forms of same-sex partnerships. Finally, he delves into how artists and writers employed ecclesiastical material culture to further queer self-expression, concluding with studies of Oscar Wilde and Derek Jarman that illustrate both the limitations and ongoing significance of Christianity as an inspiration for expressions of homoerotic desire.
Providing historical context to help us reevaluate the current furor over homosexuality in the Church, this fascinating book brings to light the myriad ways that modern churches and openly gay men and women can learn from the wealth of each other’s cultural and spiritual experience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of Chicago Press
• Release date: Apr 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9780226250755

Book preview

Visions of Queer Martyrdom from John Henry Newman to Derek Jarman

Visions of Queer Martyrdom from John Henry Newman to Derek Jarman

Dominic Janes

The University of Chicago Press

Chicago and London

DOMINIC JANES is professor at the University of the Arts, London, and a reader in cultural history and visual studies at Birkbeck, University of London.

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637

The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London

© 2015 by The University of Chicago

All rights reserved. Published 2015.

Printed in the United States of America

24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 1 2 3 4 5

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-25061-8 (cloth)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-25075-5 (e-book)

DOI: 10.7208/chicago/9780226250755.001.0001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Janes, Dominic, author.

Visions of queer martyrdom from John Henry Newman to Derek Jarman / Dominic Janes.

pages cm

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-226-25061-8 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-226-25075-5 (e-book) 1. Homosexuality—England—Religious aspects. 2. Newman, John Henry, 1801–1890. 3. Bennett, W. C. (William Cox), 1820–1895. 4. Ignatius, Father, O.S.B., 1837–1908. 5. Rolfe, Frederick, 1860–1913. 6. Wilde, Oscar, 1854–1900. 7. Jarman, Derek, 1942–1994. I. Title.

HQ76.3.G7J36 2015

205′.6640942—dc23

2014033250

The writing of this book was supported by a fellowship from the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) (grant number AH/I001433/1).

♾ This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48–1992 (Permanence of Paper).

I sought me a friend long fruitlessly;

I sought but one, God gave me three.

Now I leave it to Him to bring them me,

While I lie in His arms at rest.

E. E. Bradford, At Rest, The New Chivalry (1918)

Contents

Acknowledgments

1 The Bitter Tears of John Henry Newman

2 William Bennett and the Art of Ritualism

3 Father Ignatius’s Wonderful . . . Monastery Life

4 Frederick Rolfe’s Scrapbook

5 Saint Oscar

6 The Private Lives of David and Jonathan

7 Derek Jarman and the Legacy of Queer Martyrdom

Bibliography

Index

Notes

Acknowledgments

With particular thanks to the following libraries and archives:

Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford

Berkshire County Record Office, Reading

Birkbeck College Library, University of London

Bodleian Library, University of Oxford

British Film Institute Archive, London

British Library, London

British Museum, London

Cambridge University Library

John Rylands Library, University of Manchester

Lambeth Palace Library, London

Manchester Metropolitan University Library

National Archives, London

National Art Library, Victoria and Albert Museum, London

National Portrait Gallery, London

Norfolk County Record Office, Norwich

Pusey House Library, Oxford

Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University

Sheffield City Council Archives

Tate Gallery, London

Tyne and Wear Archives and Museums

The Walters Art Museum, Baltimore

William Morris Gallery, London

I would further like to thank the following individuals for their invaluable assistance and support in the completion of this project: Colin Alsbury, Alan Beck, Christopher Cawrse, Matt Cook, Michael Johnston, Richard Kirker, Kenneth Leech, John Lotherington, Tim Morrison, Andrew Rudd, and Sebastian Sandys.

For permission to include revised material that had previously been published in an earlier form my thanks go Ashgate in relation to Queer Walsingham, in Walsingham in Literature and Culture from the Middle Ages to Modernity, edited by Dominic Janes and Gary Waller (Ashgate: Farnham, 2010), pp. 147–64; to the Rabbi Myer and Dorothy Kripke Center for the Study of Religion and Society at Creighton University in relation to The ‘Modern Martyrdom’ of Anglo-Catholics in Victorian England, Journal of Religion and Society 13 (2011); and to Taylor and Francis in relation to Frederick Rolfe’s Christmas Cards: Popular Culture and the Construction of Queerness in Late Victorian Britain, Early Popular Visual Culture 10, no. 2 (2012): 105–24, and William Bennett’s Heresy: Male Same-Sex Desire and the Art of the Eucharist, Journal of Victorian Culture 17, no. 4 (2012): 413–35.

This work was completed during the tenure of a fellowship from the Arts and Humanities Research Council (UK).

ONE

The Bitter Tears of John Henry Newman

The Curate of Littlemore had a singular experience. As he was passing by the Church he noticed an old man, very poorly dressed in an old grey coat with the collar turned up, leaning over the lych gate, in floods of tears. He was apparently in great trouble, and his hat was pulled down over his eyes, as if he wished to hide his features. . . . A photograph hung over the Curate’s mantelpiece of the man who had made Littlemore famous by his sojourn there more than twenty years ago. . . . Was it not Dr. Newman he had the honour of addressing? he asked, with all the respect and sympathy at his command. Was there nothing that could be done? But the old man hardly seemed to understand what was being said to him. Oh no, no! he repeated, with the tears streaming down his face. Oh no, no!¹

This image of John Henry—Cardinal—Newman (1801–90) was inserted by Lytton Strachey (1880–1932) in the first section of his extraordinarily successful Eminent Victorians of 1918.² That book began, in effect, with an account of two Roman Catholic Cardinals, Henry Edward Manning (1808–1892) and Newman, who had both crossed over from the Church of England. Strachey was a leading member of the Bloomsbury Group who attempted to stress his cultural distance from the religious obsessions of the nineteenth century. Not merely that, but as a man who had various same-sex affairs both when a student at Cambridge University and subsequently in London, Strachey was critical of what he saw as the sexual repressions of a previous generation. It is in this light that we can understand his emphasis on Newman, one of the country’s greatest theologians, as an essentially tragic figure. In another telling passage Strachey depicts the cardinal as a precursor of the aesthetes of Oscar Wilde’s generation. In other times, we are told, "under other skies, his days would have been more fortunate. He might have helped to . . . chase the delicate truth in the shade of an Athenian palaestra, or . . . have followed quietly in Gray’s footsteps and brought into flower those seeds of inspiration which now lie embedded amid the faded devotion of the Lyra Apostolica."³ What is being hinted at here is that instead of subliming his homoerotic interests in religious verse and ritual, Newman might have found freer sexual self-expression amid the gymnasia of ancient Athens, or even in the Cambridge of an allegedly similarly inclined Thomas Gray.⁴

The first open suggestion that Newman and other members of his circle among the Tractarian theologians of early Victorian Oxford were homosexual was made by Geoffrey Faber in his psychoanalytically informed study, Oxford Apostles (1933).⁵ On 30 June of the year of its publication the volume was picked as The Times’s book of the week, and reviewed as being really historical rather than partisan concerning Newman, and as using psychology to interpret those always emotional and frequently tearful friendships which dominated him and some of his contemporaries.⁶ Not surprisingly its sexual claims have been consistently repudiated by Catholic apologists and conservative biographers. So, for example, Ian Ker in his important biography blamed this, in his view, misreading of the cardinal on the proposition that we now live in an age that has almost lost the concept of affectionate friendship untouched by sexual attraction.⁷

What Ker was referring to was Newman’s long and enduring friendship, one so intense that it has been referred to as a love affair, with Ambrose St. John. This began with their first meeting in 1841 and ended with the two being buried together. It has rightly been pointed out that the Anglican Church had a minority tradition of clerical celibacy before Newman.⁸ Moreover, celibacy was a normal pattern of life during a fellowship at an Oxford college, albeit that such a position was often thought of as a stage prior to preferment to a parish which would provide a suitable income with which to sustain a respectable marriage.⁹ There had, moreover, been a tradition in England since the sixteenth century of two clerics being buried together. Such relationships have been seen as wholly spiritual and, as Alan Bray has argued, such a love was not the less for being so.¹⁰

All this notwithstanding, it is still necessary to account for the pointed and personal attacks made by Charles Kingsley (1819–75) on Newman in the 1860s that resulted in some of his greatest personal experiences of misery. He cried his way through the writing of his Apologia pro Vita Sua (1864, revised 1865) which formed his riposte to Kingsley.¹¹ Thus when Newman appears as a visitor to Littlemore in Strachey’s narrative he is expressing his bitter regrets at the loss of the life of the quasi-monastic Anglican community that he established there in the last years before his conversion to Rome.¹² Kingsley, who was to become known as the apostle, so to speak, of muscular Christianity, had, in the midst of many other gibes, cast aspersions on what he projected as Newman’s weakness and effeminacy. His insinuations can be contextualized by reference to contemporary lampoons in Punch of Anglo-Catholic ritualist priests, of the type inspired by the example of Newman, as being camp transvestites, such as sweet thing in Christmas vestments which appeared in 1866 (see fig. 1.1). Oliver Buckton has suggested that whether or not Newman’s celibacy, friendships, and emotional behavior in the 1830s were full of dubious sexual import and suggestive of a variety of ‘perversions’—it is clear that they were so, or were becoming so, by the 1860s.¹³ It was at this very time that the term pervert began to take on connotations of sexual deviance, having previously been employed in anti-Catholic discourse to mean a convert to Rome. It would therefore appear that religion was becoming a site for the construction of concepts of sexual deviance.¹⁴ Strachey took his description of the aging Newman on his return visit to Littlemore from a passage by Wilfrid Ward, who was, arguably, Newman’s first major biographer. In Ward’s narrative, however, Newman is not alone but is accompanied by Ambrose St. John.¹⁵ His presence was not omitted in the retelling because Strachey was afraid of the homosexual implications but because it spoiled the image that he wanted to project of Newman as isolated, tortured, and suffering.

FIGURE 1.1 Anon., Sweet Thing in Christmas Vestments, Punch 50 (1866), p. 11, reproduced by permission of Birkbeck College Library.

When I write in this book about visions of queer martyrdom I am not primarily concerned with trying to establish whether or not Newman’s relationship with St. John was sexual or not. Nor am I seeking to construct an argument derived from theology that addresses the compatibility of sainthood and same-sex desire. What I do want to do is to highlight the role played by Christianity in the history of homosexuality in Britain, not just in terms of physical relations but also in terms of identities both embraced and refused. Telling this story involves the exploration of coded expressions of desire as well as of creative blurrings between religious idealism and performances of non-normative gender and sexuality that I refer to as queer. This is, therefore, a study in cultural history and visual culture that explores an aspect of British queer experience that has been under-appreciated and under-researched, partly because it did not lead directly to gay liberation ideals of sexual free expression. What this study is about is the way in which visual images and imaginary visions of suffering in ecclesiastical contexts could be used to develop concepts of male same-sex desire that projected the self as dutiful and penitent rather than shameful.

Idealizing the person and body of Christ as an unmarried queer martyr provided both a model and a substitute for same-sex relationships. Yet at the same time communities of priests could develop a sense of shared witness which they could then hope to instill in the next generation, albeit that that desire sometimes became suffused with elements of eroticism. Such men, living in the state of coded secrecy that can be termed the ecclesiastical closet, could then, themselves, appear to embody a certain form of sexual deviance for outsiders such as Strachey, who could develop an exaggerated vision of Church life as an intrinsically queer space of camp sorrow.¹⁶ Such a cultural construction of Newman as a queer martyr, not only pining for the Church of England, but also for the young men with whom he had once lived at Littlemore, invites reflection on the ways in which the Cardinal has been visually imaged, variously, as a peculiar youth, a handsome young man, or a frail grandee of the Roman Church (see figs. 1.2, 1.3, and 1.4). Such images could, subsequently, come to be used by others as a way of reflecting on and contributing to the construction of their own notions of queer sensibility. Visions offered spaces in which the imagination could create scenes of queer triumph over adversity, or sad tableaux of sexual failure.

FIGURE 1.2 Unknown artist, John Henry Newman (1841), etching, © National Portrait Gallery, London, NPG D5747.

FIGURE 1.3 George Richmond, John Henry Newman (1844), chalk, 41 × 34 cm, © National Portrait Gallery, London, NPG 1065.

FIGURE 1.4 Emmeline Deane, John Henry Newman (1889), oil on canvas, 111.8 × 89.5 cm, © National Portrait Gallery, London, NPG 1022.

Martyrs played an important role in the rise and development of Christianity, notably in the persecutions under the pagan Roman emperors, and the value of martyrdom was an issue of great importance and controversy in nineteenth-century Britain.¹⁷ The question of how to treat those who had suffered, especially to the point of death, in witness of Jesus, was disputed between members of the various Christian denominations. Certain English conservatives maintained that not only had Anglicanism arisen through the witness of the Protestant martyrs at the time of the Reformation but that honor should also be given to figures such as Archbishop Laud and King Charles I.¹⁸ In the aftermath of the French Revolution a new sympathy awoke in certain quarters of Protestant Britain for Catholics who had suffered and lost their lives at the hands of radicals who were, or who were seen as, atheists.¹⁹ Meanwhile the Church of England came increasingly to be viewed as split between various parties. Many of those of the traditionalist high Church party found themselves eclipsed in the 1830s by others leading the Oxford Movement for Catholic revivalism. These Tractarians, of whom John Henry Newman and Edward Bouverie Pusey were arguably the most important, also wished to revere the example of the saints of both the early Church and of the pre-Reformation Middle Ages. Thus when a Martyrs’ Memorial was completed in Oxford in 1843 to commemorate the lives and deaths of Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer, it was intended as a riposte to Roman Catholics and Tractarians alike.²⁰

However, the leaders of the Oxford Movement were intent not simply on disputing who should be revered as a martyr but also what role exemplary suffering should play in the life of the ordinary Christian. They wished, above all, to distance themselves from Calvinist notions of penal substitution by which Christ took much of the burden of suffering from the shoulders of a sinful mankind and, instead, emphasized the fellowship with the Lord that worshippers experienced through pain as an act of penitence or as a sacrifice offered up in devotion.²¹ It was in this spirit that Pusey argued in his sermon on the value and sacredness of suffering that pain, sickness, weariness, distress, languor, agony of mind or body, whether in ourselves or others, is to be treated reverently, seeing in it our Maker’s Hand passing over us, fashioning, by suffering, the imperfect or decayed substance of our souls.²² Thus, powerful Christian witness could be achieved not only through an exalted death but also through a state of suffering in life.

Such statements set their faces against utilitarian notions that worldly pleasure should form the basis for rational decision making and, by contrast, asserted the vital importance of delayed gratification in heaven. Many Protestants, however, felt critical of what they saw as a potentially unhealthy fascination with, and indeed a seeming desire to seek out, sources of suffering. Moreover, because of a misogynistic association with the female state as being peculiarly attuned to pain in the service of men (through, for example, childbirth and domestic service), the seeming exaltation of pain as an element of everyday male experience aroused suspicions of effeminacy. Moreover, such male effeminacy came, increasingly, also to be associated with perverse forms of sexual gratification, often because many Tractarians and their ritualist and Anglo-Catholic successors eschewed marriage despite that fact that it was widely seen as the only decent outlet for sexual desires.²³ All of this meant that the state of male Christian suffering that I term queer martyrdom came to be established as outside normative roles of gender and sexuality in Victorian England. Queer martyrdom, therefore, came to combine Christian witness with aspects of gender and sexual transgression. It enabled men to live powerfully queer lives that also gave them a route, they believed, to salvation. And if this cultural formation as a whole has not, by contrast, provided a direct path toward gay liberation it can, nevertheless, still be hailed as an example of what Judith Halbertstam—referencing Quentin Crisp’s comment that if at first you don’t succeed, failure may be your style—has termed the queer art of failure.²⁴ Queer tears defied heternormative expectations of manhood in the nineteenth century and continue to do so today.²⁵

Martyrdom is a social formation and requires the witness not just of the martyr but of others who will attest to one. Thus, a crucial place in the history of martyrdom is occupied by the mediated forms, traditionally texts such as hagiographies, which evidenced the acts of persecution and sacrifice. Moreover, the period covered in this book was one in which, as I have argued elsewhere, such witness might be to a range of quasi-religious devotions from nationalism to gender equality.²⁶ Awareness that people were willing to suffer or die for the sake of various forms of Christianity, and indeed for other faiths or even for nonreligious beliefs, bred a tendency to regard martyrdom as being, in itself, a culturally contestable state that could, in due course, be claimed by pressure groups of all kinds including secular ones. Queer martyrdom, therefore, could encompass both attempts to accommodate sexual deviance within the realm of Christian moral witness and the attempted manipulation of Christian imagery of martyrdom in the cause of sexual liberation.

No term for same-sex erotic desire is unproblematic. None of those in wide contemporary use (gay, homosexual, queer, for instance) were popularly available in the nineteenth century with their current contemporary meanings. The gay-rights activist (if one can dare to talk of such things before World War II) George Ives was behaving in a very advanced manner when he used the word homosexual to describe himself in the 1910s and 1920s.²⁷ While the term gay can be located to the later twentieth-century struggle to positively recategorize such supposed sexual deviance, the currently most widely used appellation, homosexual, developed out of medical (sexological) discourse. It was first coined by the Austrian-born Hungarian journalist Károly Mária Kertbeny (born Karl-Maria Benkert) in 1869 and entered English usage along with heterosexual with the translation in the 1890s of Richard von Krafft-Ebing’s Pyschopathia Sexualis.²⁸ My use of this term in this study is not meant to imply my collusion with the pathologization of sexual identities, but is simply intended to function as a factual indicator that I want to talk about men whose sexual and emotional desires were primarily, or entirely, toward members of their own sex. I have only employed it when discussing the period during which the term was current. For earlier periods I have preferred to use the word sodomite.

In addition to the term homosexual, employed either as a matter of convenience to locate a person in relation to a category of sexual behavior or in relation to discourses that used that term themselves, I also use the term queer. There is no single definition of the word queer as used in the recent academic discourse which calls itself queer theory, but it is generally employed in the exploration of circumstances in which there is some form of overlap between the cultural politics of transgression and the construction of alternatives to normative sexual identities. Because queerness is, therefore, generally understood to exist in relation to the transgression of categories it necessarily does more work than the terms homosexual or gay. The main problem with these latter words is that they are largely defined negatively in relation to the notion of not being sexually straight and operate through the assertion of a new oppositional category; whereas queer can be seen as that which sets itself up against the normative, whatever that might be, including against the imperative to categorize.²⁹ Therefore, queer is a useful word to use when addressing situations such as the overlap of religion and sexual identity in which the appearance of unusual/strange/queer cultural formations helps to signal that conventional understandings of desire are coming under pressure.³⁰

Historians of male same-sex experience have adopted a range of stances in their attempts to explore chronological specificity while retaining a transhistorical notion of the gay/homosexual/queer. For the pioneering generation of historians the key work was investigating overlooked materials in order to reveal rich seams of gay activity in past society that appeared to validate contemporary experience and practice. For instance, in 1977 Randolph Trumbach argued of eighteenth-century London’s gay scene that that sub-culture bears an extraordinary resemblance to those described in the twentieth-century sociological literature. There are the same meetings in parks, latrines, and bars. There is a similar specialized argot. There are similar forms of effeminacy. There is the same range of age and occupations. There is the same presence of both married and single men. And there is similar evidence that most individuals participated in the sub-culture only to a limited extent.³¹ More recent studies in what has been referred to as the new queer history over the last decade in Britain have been overtly historicist, and concerned with emphasizing temporal and geographic specificities of cultural practice rather than on discovering a lost gay past.³² Others have returned to an essentialist position by advancing the notion that men with similar erotic desires to those of modern gays were always there but they just left different traces in the record, as in Rictor Norton’s The Myth of the Modern Homosexual (1997).³³ My own belief is that if same-sex desire is simply an aspect of being human, its expression and recognition has had a very complex historical trajectory.

It is tempting, therefore, if perhaps unwise, to posit a transhistorical fascination for a combination of homoeroticism and martyrdom. Above all, St. Sebastian appears repeatedly as an iconic combination of beautiful, homoerotic suffering that, arguably, results in the very distillation in art of an emotionally and politically fraught homosexual persona.³⁴ As Maureen Moran has written in relation to Victorian representations of martyrdom, the broken body can be viewed as a means to spiritual triumph or a voyeuristic object appealing, at best, to erotic curiosity and, at worst, to perverse and violent desires.³⁵ The latter approach emerged quite clearly in the 2003 exhibition held at the Kunsthalle Wien, Sebastian: A Splendid Readiness for Death. In this show a range of modern and contemporary artists explored the theme of Sebastian as patron saint of soldiers, of homosexuals, of plague- and AIDS-sufferers. Personified Sebastian: a sado-masochist icon, a death-loving, androgynous dandy, the very embodiment of the exemplary suffering of the artist.³⁶ The use of the term saint to apply to prominent gay men who died of AIDS was widespread in the late twentieth century, including in the scholarly community, as for instance in the case of David Halperin’s Saint Foucault: Towards a Gay Hagiography (1995). Halperin admired the Frenchman as an exemplary individual and thinker. Above all he saw Foucault as a liberatory figure. Rather than being enmeshed and trapped by power, he writes that the kind of power Foucault is interested in, then, far from enslaving its objects, constructs them as subjective agents and preserves them in their autonomy, so as to invest them all the more completely.³⁷ But that is also what Christian saints and martyrs can be understood to have experienced, and it is what gives their actions such significance in relation to the development of regimes for the production of the self. Queer martyrdom, therefore, is a state that can be applied to create a sense of exalted drama around the sufferings and privations of sexual and gender deviants, and it can be employed in personal scripts of the creation of the self or can be imputed to others.

Furthermore, queer martyrdom was by no means the sole province of men. Even though the current study is one which explores male experience, the ideas examined here could be applied to certain aspects of the history of lesbianism. To take one quick example, open a copy of Radclyffe Hall’s The Well of Loneliness (1928) and you will read that Stephen, the invert heroine of the novel, is told that you were made for a martyr, because she finds joy in Christlike suffering.³⁸ Inversion was held to be a tragic state in which a man’s soul inhabited a woman’s body, or vice versa, but Hall had used the Passion in a way that, for Maddon, substitutes a lesbian writer as the martyred messiah of her people.³⁹ Such examples notwithstanding, the key rationale for leaving the exploration of female same-sex desire to another occasion is that this current study focuses closely on the (in this period) necessarily male role of the priest, and his relation both to Jesus and to his own self and desires.

There have been a number of important works on the history of male same-sex desire in modern Britain.⁴⁰ Recent histories of nineteenth-century sexual deviance have not tended to focus on Christianity despite its importance in that period such that, as one writer put it, the Victorians lived with, in, for, and against religion.⁴¹ Nor, in general, have such studies worked to establish connections with the developing realm of the academic study of ecclesiastical images and visual and material culture.⁴² This current project reads backward and forward between physical images and objects and their mediation via text and through the operation of the visual imagination. By focusing on such issues the current study is intended to complement others which have explored such connections in religious literature, such as Frederick Roden’s Same-Sex Desire in Victorian Religious Culture (2002); for, as Roden admits himself, the literary critic cannot write history like the historian.⁴³ My evidential focus is particularly salient to this topic because the constraints of the closet limited what could be put down, unambiguously, in words but offered enhanced scope to coded forms of visual expression. Moreover, of all the forms of Christianity practiced in Britain, Catholicism offered some of the richest resources for visual expression including, in particular, many focused on the aesthetic expression of devotion to Jesus and His body.

My present book is, therefore,