The 2025 Papal Conclave

A Secret History of Gambling on the Papacy

From Renaissance Rome to crypto prediction markets; why people have always bet on the choice of Pope.

“The Pope, please God, will be chosen in the conclave… and not in the marketplace”.
— Venetian ambassador Matteo Dandolo, 1550

The Eternal Wager

Each time the seat of Saint Peter falls vacant, the world holds its breath.

Inside the Sistine Chapel, cardinals in crimson file beneath the vaulted majesty of Michelangelo’s ceiling. The doors close. The locks turn. Tradition, prayer, and centuries of ritual converge in one of the most solemn and secretive acts on Earth: the papal conclave.

Outside, the scene is no less intense. Pilgrims gather in the square. Reporters set up their cameras. And in quieter corners of the city, and now across the internet, a very different kind of preparation unfolds: people begin to place their bets.

They consult experts. They study rumours. Some rely on geopolitics, others on gut instinct. In a practice dating back over 500 years, they wager not out of irreverence, but fascination, a desire to glimpse what comes next in an event shrouded in silence.

Because while the cardinals listen for the whisper of the Holy Spirit, the world outside listens to the murmurs of markets.

Why has this sacred event, one so rooted in divine discernment, long been mirrored by something so human as speculation? Why, across centuries, have people placed money, hopes, and reputations on predicting the next pope?

In this article, we’ll explore that question by tracing the remarkable history of papal betting:

• How Renaissance Romans gathered around statues and apothecaries to trade odds on the next Holy Father;
• How fake deaths, forged leaks, and panicked markets once engulfed the Eternal City;
• How popes, furious at the intrusion, responded with arrests, bans, and eventually excommunication;
• And how in 2025, long after papal betting was thought dead, it has returned in a new form: sleek, digital, and global, driven by cryptocurrency and blockchain-based prediction markets.

This is the story of the eternal wager, not a tale of blasphemy, but of enduring human curiosity. A story of how, when the Church chooses its next shepherd, the world cannot help but watch… and wonder.

The Origins: Where Politics, Providence, and Wagers Met

Long before the invention of modern financial markets, before stock exchanges or political polling, there was already a thriving culture of speculation in Europe, and some of its earliest targets were the popes themselves.

By the early 15th century, betting on the pope’s life or death had become so widespread that it drew official condemnation. In 1419, the Republic of Venice, no stranger to markets or intrigue, passed legislation banning all wagers on the pope’s health and went so far as to void any existing bets. The Venetian Senate feared not only the moral hazard of profiting from death but the dangerous intersection of faith, rumour, and finance.

Other city-states soon followed. Barcelona (1435) and Genoa (1467 and 1494) outlawed a specific financial instrument: life insurance policies on popes and other high-ranking Church figures. These policies were often framed as legitimate tools for merchants and creditors, especially those whose fortunes were tied to Vatican debts, but they increasingly became vehicles for gambling, often traded second-hand, with buyers hoping to cash in on a pontiff’s failing health.

The motivation wasn’t always cynical. In the deeply unstable world of 15th-century papal finance, a new pope could mean immediate changes in political alliances, appointments, and debt settlements. Businessmen who had lent money to the papacy during one reign might lose everything under the next. Betting on a pope’s death or replacement wasn’t just a game, it was often a hedge against financial catastrophe.

But as with all markets, where hedging exists, speculation follows. By the late 15th century, people weren’t just betting on when a pope would die. They were now placing wagers on who would succeed him.

The first clearly documented instance of gambling on a papal election comes from the September 1503 conclave, following the death of the infamous Pope Alexander VI (Rodrigo Borgia). Rome was tense, factions were deeply divided, and speculation was rampant.

In an early case of market insight beating conventional wisdom, Roman bettors correctly backed Cardinal Francesco Piccolomini as the likely winner. Despite political headwinds, he emerged as the compromise candidate and was elected Pope Pius III.

Though his papacy lasted a mere 26 days, the bet had been sound. The market had intuited what many inside the conclave soon realised: that amid bitter factionalism, the safest option was a neutral, aging, and respected figure. The betting public, perhaps tipped off by courtiers, or simply well attuned to Roman political dynamics, had read the situation with uncanny accuracy.

This moment marked a turning point. It wasn’t just a fluke win for gamblers, it was the beginning of a new cultural dynamic, one in which public speculation on sacred decisions became a regular, if unofficial, part of the papal process.

The conclave, sealed by tradition and prayer, now had a shadow twin: the street-level betting market.

The Roman Betting Boom

By the mid-1500s, Rome had become the beating heart of papal speculation. While the cardinals met in cloistered chapels to pray and vote, the people of Rome, especially those in the commercial hub of the Banchi, were running their own parallel conclave.

The Banchi was Rome’s financial district: a lively warren of banks, spice shops, pawnshops, and apothecaries, nestled just across the Tiber from the Vatican. It was here that the city’s sensali – brokers and bookmakers, many of them Florentine – set odds, took wagers, and tracked papal news like stock tickers.

Every papal illness, delay, or whispered alliance triggered a flurry of speculation. Bets were placed not only on who would be elected pope, but on a wide array of related ecclesiastical events:

• Which cardinal would ascend to the throne of Peter;
• How long the conclave would last;
• How many ballots it would take;
• When the pope would appoint new cardinals;
• Even whether the Holy Father would make a rumoured trip to Bologna.

Bets were written up on printed tickets called polize or cedole, many of which were dated and stamped in Florence. These slips became de facto financial instruments, bought, sold, and exchanged on rumour and instinct.

Information was the currency, and in a pre-newspaper age, it flowed through handwritten newsletters known as avvisi, the Twitter threads of their day, and the city’s most famous outlet of political mockery: the statue of Pasquino, where satirical verses and gossip were posted for public amusement and scandal.

Wagering fever gripped all levels of Roman society. A tailor might place a small bet on his parish’s favoured cardinal. A nobleman might wager a hundred gold scudi with a banker. Priests, artisans, merchants, apothecaries, and even the servants of cardinals placed bets, sometimes on behalf of their masters, sometimes for themselves. According to records from 1590, at least 26% of those arrested for illegal betting were artisans. One tailor, caught in the act, pleaded innocence, claiming he had four children to feed and no money to gamble.

Even members of the College of Cardinals were not above the action. Venetian ambassadors reported wagers among cardinals involving perfumed gloves, amber rosaries, she-mules, and fine wine, tokens of honour and status as much as indulgence.

Some bettors struck it rich. In 1550, a merchant named Ceuli Banchieri bet big on Cardinal Gianmaria del Monte, soon elected Pope Julius III, and walked away with 20,000 scudi, a sum large enough to purchase an entire Roman palazzo.

But for every Ceuli, there was a cautionary tale. During the volatile 1590 conclave, five Florentine wool merchants wagered heavily on Cardinal Santa Severina. When he lost, all five went bankrupt. Ruins and riches hinged on each puff of smoke from the Sistine chimney.

This culture of betting transformed Rome during a sede vacante. In the absence of a pope, the Eternal City became a feverish information market. Each rumour shifted odds. Each avviso passed from hand to hand like a hot stock tip. For a moment, the power to guess, or fake, what came next felt as potent as the power to vote.

Rumours, Leaks, and Dead Men Betting

The betting was never just idle fun; it had real consequences.

By the mid-16th century, the line between rumour, espionage, and market manipulation had all but disappeared. The conclave was supposed to be a sealed chamber of divine discernment, but in practice, the seal was not secure. And where information leaked, money followed.

The Pole Surge That Almost Became a Coronation

In the 1549–50 conclave, the favourite was Cardinal Reginald Pole, an Englishman and spiritual heavyweight known for his integrity and ties to Queen Mary I. His odds soared so high in the Banchi that many—including cardinals’ own servants—believed his election was inevitable. Betting slips listed him as the overwhelming favourite, and brokers adjusted prices hourly as his name dominated Roman gossip.

So certain was the public of Pole’s election that some conclavists, the cardinal attendants, began dismantling the temporary wooden cells that housed the electors, a symbolic and logistical preparation for the arrival of the new pope.

Just two votes short of election, and on the point of being made Pope by acclamation, Pole insisted on waiting until he won the formal two-thirds majority.

Then, unexpectedly, the tide shifted.

A last-minute political block, led by late arriving French cardinals suspicious of Pole’s English ties, prevented his election by a narrow margin. After weeks of deadlock, it was Cardinal del Monte who emerged as the compromise candidate and was elected Pope Julius III.

For the betting public, the lesson was painful: markets could follow momentum, but they couldn’t predict last-minute intrigue. For those who had already sold their betting slips or spent their “winnings” in anticipation, it was ruinous.

The “Death” of Carafa

Things turned darker during the 1555 conclave. Cardinal Gian Pietro Carafa, known for his reformist zeal and staunch anti-Spanish politics, was one of the leading contenders. Then, one morning, he failed to appear for Mass.

That was all the Banchi needed.

Within hours, brokers were circulating the rumour that Carafa had died inside the conclave. His odds collapsed instantly. Traders who had wagered heavily on him scrambled to sell their slips for pennies on the scudo. In response, money rushed to other candidates perceived as “safely alive”.

But Carafa wasn’t dead, only indisposed. Days later, he was elected Pope and took the name Paul IV.

The backlash was immediate. The false rumour hadn’t just distorted the markets, it had threatened the integrity of the conclave itself. Riots nearly broke out in parts of the city, and the papal guard arrested several brokers accused of deliberately manipulating public perception for profit.

The scandal revealed how deeply intertwined the financial, political, and religious ecosystems of Rome had become. Betting was no longer a curiosity, it was a form of soft power.

The Paleotti Panic of 1590

Perhaps the most dramatic example came during the conclave of 1590, when the betting markets crowned a pope that never was.

Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti, a respected Bolognese prelate and veteran of the Council of Trent, suddenly surged in the odds. According to avvisi and eyewitness accounts, he reached 70% in the betting markets, a heavy favourite.

The response was chaotic and theatrical:

• Candles were lit at St. Peter’s and other major churches;
• His coat of arms was posted in the streets;
• Militia were stationed outside his house in anticipation of celebrations;
• News was even dispatched to other cities reporting his victory.

But Paleotti had not been elected.

When the truth emerged, the College of Cardinals reacted with alarm. They ordered the conclave walls to be physically reinforced, to prevent communication with the outside world. Conclavists were made to swear new oaths on the Bible, promising not to send news out of the chamber.

It turned out that two influential cardinals, Montalto and Sforza, secretly agreed to join forces in support of Niccolo Sfondrato, making fortunes betting on him at odds of 10-1 the day before he was elected as Pope Gregory XIV. Cardinal Alessandro Peretti di Montalto may well have needed the money – reputedly, he had an extravagant lifestyle, including keeping a permanent staff of musicians on call to play solos at his palace!

This episode showed how fragile the conclave’s secrecy was, and how much power the Banchi’s betting culture had accumulated.

When Markets Become Weapons

These weren’t isolated incidents. They were part of a pattern: a city that watched the conclave like a horse race, and a marketplace that profited from destabilising sacred events.

In a way, this was a forerunner to the modern concept of “information warfare”. The rumours didn’t just reflect public misunderstanding; they were deliberately planted, exaggerated, or withheld to shape expectations and control outcomes.

Some leaks were real, coming from friendly conclavists hoping to tip the odds in their patron’s favour. Others were fabricated entirely, spread by those who stood to win big if the market swung. Either way, the goal was the same: influence the betting to maximise returns.

By the end of the century, the papacy had had enough. These episodes were among the final catalysts for the crackdown that came in 1591, a crackdown that would criminalise betting on conclaves for the next three centuries.

The Crackdown: When Betting Became a Mortal Sin

By the close of the 16th century, papal authorities had lost patience.

The betting markets of Rome, once tolerated as colourful, even inevitable, outgrowths of civic enthusiasm, had become too bold, too visible, and too destabilising. Rumours of papal deaths, premature celebrations of non-elected cardinals, and market manipulation inside and outside the conclave had shaken public trust in the spiritual process.

The tipping point came in the aftermath of the chaotic conclaves of 1590, during which false leaks, dangerous misinformation, and open gambling had nearly turned the election of a pope into a civic panic.

In response, Pope Gregory XIV, a devout reformer and former canon lawyer, acted decisively. On 21 March, 1591, he issued the apostolic bull Cogit nos, a sweeping and unambiguous condemnation of all forms of gambling related to papal succession.

The bull declared that anyone who wagered on:

• The outcome of a papal election,
• The duration of a pope’s reign,
• Or the promotion of cardinals

…would incur automatic excommunication and perpetual banishment from Church institutions.

But this wasn’t just spiritual warning, it came with teeth.

Within days, the Governor of Rome ordered police raids on the betting shops of the Banchi. Dozens of brokers were arrested, their records seized, their patrons questioned, and some even tortured to extract information about high-ranking clients. Investigators discovered that many of the city’s most respected merchants, bankers, and even servants of noble households had placed bets, some on behalf of cardinals themselves.

One newsletter writer at the time wryly noted that the crackdown would “entangle and embrace many lords and several illustrious cardinals”, implying that Gregory’s net had caught far more than just street-level speculators.

Some of the arrested brokers fled the crackdown by taking refuge in noble sanctuaries, the only places in Rome where papal authority could not enforce arrests without permission. First, they hid in the palace of Cardinal Francesco Sforza, then in the houses of the powerful Orsini and Colonna families, before finally retreating to a vineyard owned by Paolo Sforza near Monte Cavallo. Even this choice had symbolic sting: Sforza himself had ordered their arrest.

These evasions were not just acts of survival; they exposed the contradictions of a system where spiritual authority, aristocratic privilege, and money collided.

While some betting continued underground, perhaps whispered in taverns or settled privately among friends, the public, organised, and institutionally tolerated system of papal gambling in the Banchi was gone.

The penalties were not just limited to Catholics in Rome. Cogit nos was a universal document of Church law: it applied to any Catholic, anywhere in the world. And though rarely enforced outside the Papal States, the threat of excommunication cast a long shadow. The bull remained in force for over three centuries, never formally rescinded until the sweeping reforms of Pope Benedict XV, who codified a new legal framework for the Church with the 1917 Code of Canon Law.

By then, the betting markets of the Renaissance had become a distant memory, replaced by other forms of speculation, but never entirely forgotten.

Resurrection: Modern Markets and Media Spectacle

The crackdown may have driven papal betting underground, but it didn’t stay buried forever.

By the 19th century, a new form of public speculation began to surface, not in the alleyways of Rome, but in the lotteries of a newly unified Italy. When Pope Pius IX died in 1878, Italians didn’t openly wager on his successor, but they flooded the state lottery with number combinations tied to his age, reign, and name, a fusion of superstition, numerology, and low-stakes gambling that blurred the line between veneration and chance.

The fascination with betting on the pope’s death or replacement was no longer a uniquely Roman habit; it had become a European curiosity. By the early 20th century, British and Italian newspapers were publishing speculative coverage of papal elections. In 1903, following the death of Leo XIII, London bookmakers quietly accepted bets on who would succeed him, with Cardinal Rampolla and Cardinal Sarto (the future Pius X) among the favourites. Gambling is also recorded on the papal conclave of 1922.

Bookmaker odds for the 1958 conclave, while not widely promoted, show Cardinal Angelo Roncalli the 2-1 favourite. The odds were justified when Roncalli became Pope John XXIII.

Still, formal papal betting remained relatively small scale, and generally frowned upon, until the late 20th century.

In 1978, two popes died within months of each other. The world watched in awe, and so did the British betting industry. For the first time in decades, bookmakers openly offered odds on both conclaves: first following the death of Paul VI, and again just weeks later after the sudden death of John Paul I, whose 33-day reign shocked the Catholic world.

The response from the Church was swift, if limited. The Archbishop of Westminster, Basil Hume, issued a warning to British Catholics, urging them not to place bets on the election of the next pope. He saw it as inappropriate, even sacrilegious. But the warning had little effect—if anything, it stoked media interest and public curiosity.

In the event, both Pope John Paul I (Alberto Luciani) and John Paul II (Karol Wojtyla) were longshot winners.

The Internet Era: Betting Goes Global

Then came the internet.

In 2005, during the conclave following the death of John Paul II, papal betting was no longer a fringe curiosity, it was big business. Irish bookmaker Paddy Power accepted more than the equivalent of more than £200,000 in wagers, advertising odds on dozens of cardinals from every continent. The bookmaker called it “the biggest non-sports betting market of all time”.

At first, betting focused on the usual papabili—popular, media-savvy, politically connected cardinals. One of them, Joseph Ratzinger, began the race at 12–1. As the conclave neared, his odds surged to 3–1, fuelled by media speculation, insider analysis, and a growing sense that he was the natural heir to John Paul II’s intellectual and theological legacy.

When Ratzinger emerged from the conclave as Pope Benedict XVI, the markets exhaled. For once, the bookmakers had got it right.

But lightning didn’t strike twice.

In 2013, following Benedict’s shocking resignation, a fresh round of speculation began. Bookmakers offered odds on a field of global contenders: Cardinal Scola of Milan, Cardinal Ouellet of Canada, Cardinal Turkson of Ghana.

But the market got it wrong.

The man chosen by the cardinals, Jorge Mario Bergoglio, the quiet Jesuit archbishop of Buenos Aires, was listed as a distant longshot and ranked 15th or lower on most betting boards. At the opening of the conclave he was trading as long as 55-1 on the Betfair betting exchange. He was barely mentioned in the press, much less picked by pundits.

When the white smoke rose and Cardinal Bergoglio emerged as Pope Francis, bettors were stunned. The markets had misread the conclave entirely, despite La Stampa’s Vatican Insider column highlighting him as a leading contender in the closing stages of the conclave. Specifically, barely 30 minutes after the second outpouring of black smoke, La Stampa’s reporter, the highly respected Giacomo Galeazzi, had effectively named the three final contenders. One of these was Jorge Mario Bergoglio. The betting odds barely shimmered in response. The information was later confirmed as having been accurate. The others named, and more expected, were Cardinals Angelo Scola and Marc Ouellet.

What these two elections revealed is that papal betting is a peculiar mix of political analysis, superstition, and guesswork, and apparently some insider knowledge. Unlike elections or sports, conclaves offer no polling data, no campaign trails, and no open debates. Decisions are made ostensibly in secret, often at the last minute, and frequently driven by factors that are meant to be invisible to the outside world.

Yet people still bet, not because they expect certainty, but because they long to interpret what is believed by many to be unknowable.

2025: Papal Prediction in the Crypto Age

When Pope Francis passed in April 2025, the world paused in reverence, and then began to place its bets.

But this time, it didn’t happen in the backrooms of Roman spice shops or inside Irish betting houses. It happened online.

Within hours, the decentralised crypto-based prediction market Polymarket lit up with activity. Over $3 million was wagered in just the first 24 hours, rapidly rising above $12 million in the next few days, fuelled by speculation, social media, and the thrill of turning divine mystery into digital assets.

The candidates weren’t all unfamiliar, some had featured in 2013 and 2005, but the field was more global and diverse than ever before. The top names early in the market included:

• Cardinal Pietro Parolin, the seasoned Vatican Secretary of State;
• Cardinal Luis Antonio Tagle, the charismatic Filipino prelate and longtime favourite among progressives;
• Cardinal Matteo Zuppi, the media-friendly Archbishop of Bologna;
• Cardinal Peter Turkson of Ghana, long discussed as a possible first Black pope;
• Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa, the Franciscan Latin Patriarch of Jerusalem.

But the wagers didn’t stop with names.

Polymarket’s users could also stake on a range of outcome-based propositions, such as:

• What continent will the next pope come from?
• Will the next pope be under 70?
• Will the next pope be under 5’8” tall?
• Will the conclave end within five days?
• Will the new pope take the name John, Paul, or something entirely new?
• Will the next pope be Black?

These were not mere novelty bets, they were serious markets. Traders scrutinised every papal obituary, tweet from Vatican journalists, and even photos of cardinals arriving at the Domus Sanctae Marthae for clues. Influencers and armchair theologians shared their predictions alongside crypto traders and cultural critics.

The smart contracts guaranteed transparent resolution once white smoke rose and the Vatican announced Habemus Papam. But until then, the markets fluctuated, mirroring the energy of a Renaissance avviso passed from hand to hand.

Old Habits, New Tools

What was remarkable, however, is not how new it all felt, but how ancient the instincts remained.

Despite the modern ledgers and decentralised prediction protocols, the betting dynamics of 2025 are uncannily similar to those of 1550:

• Whispers moved prices.
• Misinformation surged and genuine information was ignored.
• A large portion of the public, lacking deep political insight, placed bets on charisma, nationality, or prophecy.

The only real difference was that instead of a Florentine broker scribbling a name on parchment in the Banchi, users now clicked a button and transferred currency into smart contracts backed by crowdsourced liquidity pools.

And just as in centuries past, there will always be winners who cash out at the right moment, and losers who watched their tokens burn in the digital wind.

Do the Markets Get it Right?

Yes, sometimes, but certainly not always.

• 1503 – Pope Pius III: The Roman betting public correctly backed Cardinal Francesco Piccolomini in the September conclave. Though his reign lasted just 26 days, the market had read the factions well. He was the obvious compromise candidate when everyone else cancelled each other out.
• 1958 – Pope John XXIII: Cardinal Angelo Roncalli was the 2-1 favourite, followed by Cardinals Agagianian and Ottaviani at 3-1, then Stefan Wyszynski and Giuseppe Siri at 4-1. The odds were justified when Roncalli took the name Pope John XXIII.
• 2005 – Pope Benedict XVI: Despite early support in the market for Cardinal Arinze, bookmakers saw a surge in late bets on the German cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, whose role as theological heir to John Paul II was underestimated by political pundits but not by bettors paying attention to Vatican whispers. Bookmakers shortened his odds from 12–1 to 3–1 in the final days, and they were right.

In each case, the markets were less driven by divine intuition than by pragmatic analysis: who was electable, who had support across factions, and who could command two-thirds in the end.

Famous Misses:

• 1549–50 – Reginald Pole: So favoured that attendants began tearing down conclave cells in anticipation of his coronation. He never made it to the throne. Political interference, especially from the French, derailed his momentum at the last moment.
• 1555 – Gian Pietro Carafa: Brokers falsely declared him dead. His odds lengthened dramatically, until he unexpectedly emerged as Pope Paul IV. The rumour cost some investors dearly and nearly sparked riots.
• 1590 – Gabriele Paleotti: Reached 70% in betting markets. His supporters began celebrating, lighting candles and posting his coat of arms around Rome. He was never elected. The market had been entirely misled by gossip and misinformation.
• 1978 – Both John Paul I (Alberto Luciani) and John Paul II (Karol Wojtyla) were longshots in the betting, Cardinal Sergio Pignedoli was the 5-2 favourite in the first conclave before Luciani was ultimately elected as John Paul I. There was no clear favourite in the second conclave of 1978, but of those mentioned in the serious betting, such as Cardinals Ursi, Pappalardo, Poletti, Benelli, and Siri, Cardinal Wojtyla was not among them, eventually being elected after the eighth ballot.
• 2013 – Jorge Mario Bergoglio: Nearly invisible in international media coverage, although identified as a leading contender during the conclave by La Stampa’s Vatican Insider column, and traded as a longshot with bookmakers and on the betting exchanges. When the white smoke appeared and Francis stepped onto the balcony, most bettors were shocked. La Stampa’s Giacomo Galeazzi was not.

Unlike political elections, there are no polls. No debates. Just cloistered deliberation among men who may change their minds several times in the process. Last-minute compromise is common, and the most obvious candidates, known as papabile, can become victims of their own front-runner status.

As one saying goes, “He who enters the conclave as pope leaves as a cardinal”.

Even in the digital age, with livestream punditry and crypto-based betting, the conclave sometimes remains stubbornly unpredictable. Its solemn secrecy and the unpredictable nature of consensus make it, ironically, one of the least efficient betting markets in the world.

And yet, people keep trying.

Final Thoughts: Why We Bet on the Papacy

At its heart, betting on a papal conclave isn’t about irreverence, it’s about proximity. It’s about the deeply human urge to get closer to power, to prophecy, and to a moment in history that feels bigger than us all.

From the spice merchants of Renaissance Rome to modern crypto traders, people have always tried to read the smoke before it rises, to decipher patterns in rumour, nationality, and timing. It’s an act of participation, not in the spiritual process, but in the cultural spectacle that surrounds it.

For some, it’s just a game. For others, a kind of hopeful prophecy. But for all, it’s a reminder that faith and curiosity are not mutually exclusive.

The conclave remains silent, sacred, and sealed.

But outside, on the streets of Rome, in bookmakers’ offices, and across decentralised blockchains, the eternal wager continues.

Further reading on this topic is available here:

Leighton Vaughan Williams and David Paton (2015). Forecasting the Outcome of Closed-Door Decisions: Evidence from 500 Years of Betting on Papal Conclaves. Journal of Forecasting, 34 (5), 391-404.

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