HIALMAR.
No, I haven’t.
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
You ought to have; it’s very good for the digestion to sit and look at
pictures.
THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.
And it contributes to the entertainment, you know.
THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN.
And all contributions are thankfully received.
MRS. SÖRBY.
The Chamberlains think that when one is invited out to dinner, one ought
to exert oneself a little in return, Mr. Ekdal.
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
Where one dines so well, that duty becomes a pleasure.
THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.
And when it’s a case of the struggle for existence, you know——
MRS. SÖRBY.
I quite agree with you!
[_They continue the conversation, with laughter and joking._
GREGERS.
[_Softly._] You must join in, Hialmar.
HIALMAR.
[_Writhing._] What am I to talk about?
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
Don’t you think, Mr. Werle, that Tokay may be considered one of the more
wholesome sorts of wine?
WERLE.
[_By the fire._] I can answer for the Tokay you had to-day, at any rate;
it’s of one of the very finest seasons. Of course you would notice that.
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
Yes, it had a remarkably delicate flavour.
HIALMAR.
[_Shyly._] Is there any difference between the seasons?
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
[_Laughs._] Come! That’s good!
WERLE.
[_Smiles._] It really doesn’t pay to set fine wine before you.
THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.
Tokay is like photographs, Mr. Ekdal: they both need sunshine. Am I not
right?
HIALMAR.
Yes, light is important no doubt.
MRS. SÖRBY.
And it’s exactly the same with Chamberlains—they, too, depend very much
on sunshine,[15] as the saying is.
THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.
Oh fie! That’s a very threadbare sarcasm!
THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN.
Mrs. Sörby is coming out——
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
——and at our expense, too. [_Holds up his finger reprovingly._] Oh,
Madame Bertha, Madame Bertha!
MRS. SÖRBY.
Yes, and there’s not the least doubt that the seasons differ greatly.
The old vintages are the finest.
THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN.
Do you reckon me among the old vintages?
MRS. SÖRBY.
Oh, far from it.
THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.
There now! But me, dear Mrs. Sörby——?
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
Yes, and me? What vintage should you say that we belong to?
MRS. SÖRBY.
Why, to the sweet vintages, gentlemen.
[_She sips a glass of punch. The gentlemen laugh and flirt with
her._
WERLE.
Mrs. Sörby can always find a loop-hole—when she wants to. Fill your
glasses, gentlemen! Pettersen, will you see to it——! Gregers, suppose we
have a glass together. [GREGERS _does not move._] Won’t you join us,
Ekdal? I found no opportunity of drinking with you at table.
[GRÅBERG, _the Bookkeeper, looks in at the baize door._
GRÅBERG.
Excuse me, sir, but I can’t get out.
WERLE.
Have you been locked in again?
GRÅBERG.
Yes, and Flakstad has carried off the keys.
WERLE.
Well, you can pass out this way.
GRÅBERG.
But there’s some one else——
WERLE.
All right; come through, both of you. Don’t be afraid.
[GRÅBERG _and_ OLD EKDAL _come out of the office._
WERLE.
[_Involuntarily._] Ugh!
[_The laughter and talk among the Guests cease._ HIALMAR _starts
at the sight of his father, puts down his glass, and turns
towards the fireplace._
EKDAL.
[_Does not look up, but makes little bows to both sides as he passes,
murmuring._] Beg pardon, come the wrong way. Door locked—door locked.
Beg pardon.
[_He and_ GRÅBERG _go out by the back, to the right._
WERLE.
[_Between his teeth._] That idiot Gråberg!
GREGERS.
[_Open-mouthed and staring, to HIALMAR._] Why surely that wasn’t——!
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
What’s the matter? Who was it?
GREGERS.
Oh, nobody, only the bookkeeper and some one with him.
THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN.
[_To HIALMAR._] Did _you_ know that man?
HIALMAR.
I don’t know—I didn’t notice——
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
What the deuce has come over every one?
[_He joins another group who are talking softly._
MRS. SÖRBY.
[_Whispers to the Servant._] Give him something to take with
him;—something good, mind.
PETTERSEN.
[_Nods._] I'll see to it. _Goes out._
GREGERS.
[_Softly and with emotion, to HIALMAR._] So that was really he!
HIALMAR.
Yes.
GREGERS.
And you could stand there and deny that you knew him!
HIALMAR.
[_Whispers vehemently._] But how _could_ I——!
GREGERS.
——acknowledge your own father?
HIALMAR.
[_With pain._] Oh, if you were in my place——
[_The conversation amongst the Guests, which has been carried on
in a low tone, now swells into constrained joviality._]
THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.
[_Approaching HIALMAR and GREGERS in a friendly manner._] Aha! Reviving
old college memories, eh? Don’t you smoke, Mr. Ekdal? May I give you a
light? Oh, by-the-bye, we mustn’t——
HIALMAR.
No, thank you, I won’t——
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
Haven’t you a nice little poem you could recite to us, Mr. Ekdal? You
used to recite so charmingly.
HIALMAR.
I am sorry I can’t remember anything.
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
Oh, that’s a pity. Well, what shall we do, Balle?
[_Both Gentlemen move away and pass into the other room._
HIALMAR.
[_Gloomily._] Gregers—I am going! When a man has felt the crushing hand
of Fate, you see——Say good-bye to your father for me.
GREGERS.
Yes, yes. Are you going straight home?
HIALMAR.
Yes. Why?
GREGERS.
Oh, because I may perhaps look in on you later.
HIALMAR.
No, you mustn’t do that. You must not come to my home. Mine is a
melancholy abode, Gregers; especially after a splendid banquet like
this. We can always arrange to meet somewhere in the town.
MRS. SÖRBY.
[_Who has quietly approached._] Are you going, Ekdal?
HIALMAR.
Yes.
MRS. SÖRBY.
Remember me to Gina.
HIALMAR.
Thanks.
MRS. SÖRBY.
And say I am coming up to see her one of these days.
HIALMAR.
Yes, thank you. [_To GREGERS._] Stay here; I will slip out unobserved.
[_He saunters away, then into the other room, and so out to the
right._
MRS. SÖRBY.
[_Softly to the Servant, who has come back._] Well, did you give the old
man something?
PETTERSEN.
Yes; I sent him off with a bottle of cognac.
MRS. SÖRBY.
Oh, you might have thought of something better than that.
PETTERSEN.
Oh no, Mrs. Sörby; cognac is what he likes best in the world.
THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN.
[_In the doorway with a sheet of music in his hand._] Shall we play a
duet, Mrs. Sörby?
MRS. SÖRBY.
Yes, suppose we do.
THE GUESTS.
Bravo, bravo!
[_She goes with all the Guests through the back room, out to the
right._ GREGERS _remains standing by the fire._ WERLE _is
looking for something on the writing-table, and, appears to
wish that_ GREGERS _would go; as_ GREGERS _does not move,_
WERLE _goes towards the door._
GREGERS.
Father, won’t you stay a moment?
WERLE.
[_Stops._] What is it?
GREGERS.
I must have a word with you.
WERLE.
Can it not wait till we are alone?
GREGERS.
No, it cannot; for perhaps we shall never be alone together.
WERLE.
[_Drawing nearer._] What do you mean by that?
[_During what follows, the pianoforte is faintly heard from the
distant music-room._
GREGERS.
How has that family been allowed to go so miserably to the wall?
WERLE.
You mean the Ekdals, I suppose.
GREGERS.
Yes, I mean the Ekdals. Lieutenant Ekdal was once so closely associated
with you.
WERLE.
Much too closely; I have felt that to my cost for many a year. It is
thanks to him that I—yes _I_—have had a kind of slur cast upon my
reputation.
GREGERS.
[_Softly._] Are you sure that he alone was to blame?
WERLE.
Who else do you suppose——?
GREGERS.
You and he acted together in that affair of the forests——
WERLE.
But was it not Ekdal that drew the map of the tracts we had bought—that
fraudulent map! It was he who felled all that timber illegally on
Government ground. In fact, the whole management was in his hands. I was
quite in the dark as to what Lieutenant Ekdal was doing.
GREGERS.
Lieutenant Ekdal himself seems to have been very much in the dark as to
what he was doing.
WERLE.
That may be. But the fact remains that he was found guilty and I
acquitted.
GREGERS.
Yes, I know that nothing was proved against you.
WERLE.
Acquittal is acquittal. Why do you rake up these old miseries that
turned my hair grey before its time? Is that the sort of thing you have
been brooding over up there, all these years? I can assure you, Gregers,
here in the town the whole story has been forgotten long ago—so far as
_I_ am concerned.
GREGERS.
But that unhappy Ekdal family.
WERLE.
What would you have had me do for the people? When Ekdal came out of
prison he was a broken-down being, past all help. There are people in
the world who dive to the bottom the moment they get a couple of slugs
in their body, and never come to the surface again. You may take my word
for it, Gregers, I have done all I could without positively laying
myself open to all sorts of suspicion and gossip——
GREGERS.
Suspicion——? Oh, I see.
WERLE.
I have given Ekdal copying to do for the office, and I pay him far, far
more for it than his work is worth——
GREGERS.
[_Without looking at him._] H'm; _that_ I don’t doubt.
WERLE.
You laugh? Do you think I am not telling you the truth? Well, I
certainly can’t refer you to my books, for I never enter payments of
that sort.
GREGERS.
[_Smiles coldly._] No, there are certain payments it is best to keep no
account of.
WERLE.
[_Taken aback._] What do you mean by _that_?
GREGERS.
[_Mustering up courage._] Have you entered what it cost you to have
Hialmar Ekdal taught photography?
WERLE.
I? How “entered” it?
GREGERS.
I have learnt that it was you who paid for his training. And I have
learnt, too, that it was you who enabled him to set up house so
comfortably.
WERLE.
Well, and yet you talk as though I had done nothing for the Ekdals! I
can assure you these people have cost me enough in all conscience.
GREGERS.
Have you entered any of these expenses in your books?
WERLE.
Why do you ask?
GREGERS.
Oh, I have my reasons. Now tell me: when you interested yourself so
warmly in your old friend’s son—it was just before his marriage, was it
not?
WERLE.
Why, deuce take it—after all these years, how can I——?
GREGERS.
You wrote me a letter about that time—a business letter, of course; and
in a postscript you mentioned—quite briefly—that Hialmar Ekdal had
married a Miss Hansen.
WERLE.
Yes, that was quite right. That was her name.
GREGERS.
But you did not mention that this Miss Hansen was Gina Hansen—our former
housekeeper.
WERLE.
[_With a forced laugh of derision._] No; to tell the truth, it didn’t
occur to me that you were so particularly interested in our former
housekeeper.
GREGERS.
No more I was. But [_lowers his voice_] there were others in this house
who _were_ particularly interested in her.
WERLE.
What do you mean by that? [_Flaring up._] You are not alluding to me, I
hope?
GREGERS.
[_Softly but firmly._] Yes, I am alluding to you.
WERLE.
And you dare——! You presume to——! How can that ungrateful hound—that
photographer fellow—how dare he go making such insinuations!
GREGERS.
Hialmar has never breathed a word about this. I don’t believe he has the
faintest suspicion of such a thing.
WERLE.
Then where have you got it from? Who can have put such notions in your
head?
GREGERS.
My poor unhappy mother told me; and that the very last time I saw her.
WERLE.
Your mother! I might have known as much! You and she—you always held
together. It was she who turned you against me, from the first.
GREGERS.
No, it was all that she had to suffer and submit to, until she broke
down and came to such a pitiful end.
WERLE.
Oh, she had nothing to suffer or submit to; not more than most people,
at all events. But there’s no getting on with morbid, overstrained
creatures—that I have learnt to my cost.—And you could go on nursing
such a suspicion—burrowing into all sorts of old rumours and slanders
against your own father! I must say, Gregers, I really think that at
your age you might find something more useful to do.
GREGERS.
Yes, it is high time.
WERLE.
Then perhaps your mind would be easier than it seems to be now. What can
be your object in remaining up at the works, year out and year in,
drudging away like a common clerk, and not drawing a farthing more than
the ordinary monthly wage? It is downright folly.
GREGERS.
Ah, if I were only sure of _that_.
WERLE.
I understand you well enough. You want to be independent; you won’t be
beholden to me for anything. Well, now there happens to be an
opportunity for you to become independent, your own master in
everything.
GREGERS.
Indeed? In what way——?
WERLE.
When I wrote you insisting on your coming to town at once—h’m——
GREGERS.
Yes, what is it you really want of me? I have been waiting all day to
know.
WERLE.
I want to propose that you should enter the firm, as partner.
GREGERS.
I! Join your firm? As partner?
WERLE.
Yes. It would not involve our being constantly together. You could take
over the business here in town, and I should move up to the works.
GREGERS.
_You_ would?
WERLE.
The fact is, I am not so fit for work as I once was. I am obliged to
spare my eyes, Gregers; they have begun to trouble me.
GREGERS.
They have always been weak.
WERLE.
Not as they are now. And besides, circumstances might possibly make it
desirable for me to live up there—for a time, at any rate.
GREGERS.
That is certainly quite a new idea to me.
WERLE.
Listen, Gregers: there are many things that stand between us; but we are
father and son after all. We ought surely to be able to come to some
sort of understanding with each other.
GREGERS.
Outwardly, you mean, of course?
WERLE.
Well, even that would be something. Think it over, Gregers. Don’t you
think it ought to be possible? Eh?
GREGERS.
[_Looking at him coldly._] There is something behind all this.
WERLE.
How so?
GREGERS.
You want to make use of me in some way.
WERLE.
In such a close relationship as ours, the one can always be useful to
the other.
GREGERS.
Yes, so people say.
WERLE.
I want very much to have you at home with me for a time. I am a lonely
man Gregers; I have always felt lonely, all my life through; but most of
all now that I am getting up in years. I feel the need of some one about
me——
GREGERS.
You have Mrs. Sörby.
WERLE.
Yes, I have her; and she has become, I may say, almost indispensable to
me. She is lively and even-tempered; she brightens up the house; and
that is a very great thing for me.
GREGERS.
Well then, you have everything just as you wish it.
WERLE.
Yes, but I am afraid it can’t last. A woman so situated may easily find
herself in a false position, in the eyes of the world. For that matter
it does a man no good, either.
GREGERS.
Oh, when a man gives such dinners as you give, he can risk a great deal.
WERLE.
Yes, but how about the woman, Gregers? I fear she won’t accept the
situation much longer; and even if she did—even if, out of attachment to
me, she were to take her chance of gossip and scandal and all that——? Do
you think, Gregers—you with your strong sense of justice——
GREGERS.
[_Interrupts him._] Tell me in one word: are you thinking of marrying
her?
WERLE.
Suppose I were thinking of it? What then?
GREGERS.
That’s what I say: what then?
WERLE.
Should you be inflexibly opposed to it?
GREGERS.
Not at all. Not by any means.
WERLE.
I was not sure whether your devotion to your mother’s memory——
GREGERS.
I am not overstrained.
WERLE.
Well, whatever you may or may not be, at all events you have lifted a
great weight from my mind. I am extremely pleased that I can reckon on
your concurrence in this matter.
GREGERS.
[_Looking intently at him._] Now I see the use you want to put me to.
WERLE.
Use to put you to? What an expression!
GREGERS.
Oh, don’t let us be nice in our choice of words—not when we are alone
together, at any rate. [_With a short laugh._] Well well! So this is
what made it absolutely essential that I should come to town in person.
For the sake of Mrs. Sörby, we are to get up a pretence at family life
in the house—a tableau of filial affection! That will be something new
indeed.
WERLE.
How dare you speak in that tone!
GREGERS.
Was there ever any family life here? Never since I can remember. But
now, forsooth, your plans demand something of the sort. No doubt it will
have an excellent effect when it is reported that the son has hastened
home, on the wings of filial piety, to the grey-haired father’s
wedding-feast. What will then remain of all the rumours as to the wrongs
the poor dead mother had to submit to? Not a vestige. Her son
annihilates them at one stroke.
WERLE.
Gregers—I believe there is no one in the world you detest as you do me.
GREGERS.
[_Softly._] I have seen you at too close quarters.
WERLE.
You have seen me with your mother’s eyes. [_Lowers his voice a little._]
But you should remember that her eyes were—clouded now and then.
GREGERS.
[_Quivering._] I see what you are hinting at. But who was to blame for
mother’s unfortunate weakness? Why you, and all those——! The last of
them was this woman that you palmed off upon Hialmar Ekdal, when you
were——Ugh!
WERLE.
[_Shrugs his shoulders._] Word for word as if it were your mother
speaking!
GREGERS.
[_Without heeding._] And there he is now, with his great, confiding,
childlike mind, compassed about with all this treachery—living under the
same roof with such a creature, and never dreaming that what he calls
his home is built upon a lie! [_Comes a step nearer._] When I look back
upon your past, I seem to see a battle-field with shattered lives on
every hand.
WERLE.
I begin to think the chasm that divides us is too wide.
GREGERS.
[_Bowing, with self-command._] So I have observed; and therefore I take
my hat and go.
WERLE.
You are going! Out of the house?
GREGERS.
Yes. For at last I see my mission in life.
WERLE.
What mission?
GREGERS.
You would only laugh if I told you.
WERLE.
A lonely man doesn’t laugh so easily, Gregers.
GREGERS.
[_Pointing towards the background._] Look, father,—the Chamberlains are
playing blind-man’s-buff with Mrs. Sörby.—Good-night and good-bye.
[_He goes out by the back to the right. Sounds of laughter and
merriment from the Company, who are now visible in the outer
room._
WERLE.
[_Muttering contemptuously after_ GREGERS.] Ha——! Poor wretch—and he
says he is not over-strained!
ACT SECOND.
HIALMAR EKDAL’S _studio, a good-sized room, evidently in the top storey
of the building. On the right, a sloping roof of large panes of
glass, half-covered by a blue curtain. In the right-hand corner,
at the back, the entrance door; farther forward, on the same side,
a door leading to the sitting-room. Two doors on the opposite
side, and between them an iron stove. At the back, a wide double
sliding-door. The studio is plainly but comfortably fitted up and
furnished. Between the doors on the right, standing out a little
from the wall, a sofa with a table and some chairs; on the table a
lighted lamp with a shade; beside the stove an old arm-chair.
Photographic instruments and apparatus of different kinds lying
about the room. Against the back wall, to the left of the double
door, stands a bookcase containing a few books, boxes, and bottles
of chemicals, instruments, tools, and other objects. Photographs
and small articles, such as camel’s-hair pencils, paper, and so
forth, lie on the table._
GINA EKDAL _sits on a chair by the table, sewing._ HEDVIG _is sitting on
the sofa, with her hands shading her eyes and her thumbs in her
ears, reading a book._
GINA.
[_Glances once or twice at_ HEDVIG, _as if with secret anxiety; then
says_:] Hedvig!
HEDVIG.
[_Does not hear._]
GINA.
[_Repeats more loudly._] Hedvig!
HEDVIG.
[_Takes away her hands and looks up._] Yes, mother?
GINA.
Hedvig dear, you mustn’t sit reading any longer now.
HEDVIG.
Oh mother, mayn’t I read a little more? Just a little bit?
GINA.
No no, you must put away your book now. Father doesn’t like it; he never
reads hisself in the evening.
HEDVIG.
[_Shuts the book._] No, father doesn’t care much about reading.
GINA.
[_Puts aside her sewing and takes up a lead pencil and a little
account-book from the table._] Can you remember how much we paid for the
butter to-day?
HEDVIG.
It was one crown sixty-five.
GINA.
That’s right. [_Puts it down._] It’s terrible what a lot of butter we
get through in this house. Then there was the smoked sausage, and the
cheese—let me see—[_Writes_]—and the ham—[_Adds up._] Yes, that makes
just——
HEDVIG.
And then the beer.
GINA.
Yes, to be sure. [_Writes._] How it do mount up! But we can’t manage
with no less.
HEDVIG.
And then you and I didn’t need anything hot for dinner, as father was
out.
GINA.
No; that was so much to the good. And then I took eight crowns fifty for
the photographs.
HEDVIG.
Really! So much as that?
GINA.
Exactly eight crowns fifty.
[_Silence._ GINA _takes up her sewing again,_ HEDVIG _takes
paper and pencil and begins to draw, shading her eyes with
her left hand._
HEDVIG.
Isn’t it jolly to think that father is at Mr. Werle’s big dinner-party?
GINA.
You know he’s not really Mr. Werle’s guest. It was the son invited him.
[_After a pause._] We have nothing to do with that Mr. Werle.
HEDVIG.
I'm longing for father to come home. He promised to ask Mrs. Sörby for
something nice for me.
GINA.
Yes, there’s plenty of good things going in _that_ house, I can tell
you.
HEDVIG.
[_Goes on drawing._] And I believe I'm a little hungry too.
[OLD EKDAL, _with the paper parcel under his arm and another
parcel in his coat pocket, comes in by the entrance door._
GINA.
How late you are to-day, grandfather!
EKDAL.
They had locked the office door. Had to wait in Gråberg’s room. And then
they let me through—h’m.
HEDVIG.
Did you get some more copying to do, grandfather?
EKDAL.
This whole packet. Just look.
GINA.
That’s capital.
HEDVIG.
And you have another parcel in your pocket.
EKDAL.
Eh? Oh never mind, that’s nothing. [_Puts his stick away in a corner._]
This work will keep me going a long time, Gina. [_Opens one of the
sliding-doors in the back wall a little._] Hush! [_Peeps into the room
for a moment, then pushes the door carefully to again._] Hee-hee!
They’re fast asleep, all the lot of them. And she’s gone into the basket
herself. Hee-hee!
HEDVIG.
Are you sure she isn’t cold in that basket, grandfather?
EKDAL.
Not a bit of it! Cold? With all that straw? [_Goes towards the farther
door on the left._] There are matches in here, I suppose.
GINA.
The matches is on the drawers.
[EKDAL _goes into his room._
HEDVIG.
It’s nice that grandfather has got all that copying.
GINA.
Yes, poor old father; it means a bit of pocket-money for him.
HEDVIG.
And he won’t be able to sit the whole forenoon down at that horrid Madam
Eriksen’s.
GINA.
No more he won’t.
[_Short silence._
HEDVIG.
Do you suppose they are still at the dinner-table?
GINA.
Goodness knows; as like as not.
HEDVIG.
Think of all the delicious things father is having to eat! I'm certain
he’ll be in splendid spirits when he comes. Don’t you think so, mother?
GINA.
Yes; and if only we could tell him that we’d got the room let——
HEDVIG.
But we don’t need that this evening.
GINA.
Oh, we’d be none the worse of it, I can tell you. It’s no use to us as
it is.
HEDVIG.
I mean we don’t need it this evening, for father will be in a good
humour at any rate. It is best to keep the letting of the room for
another time.
GINA.
[_Looks across at her._] You like having some good news to tell father
when he comes home in the evening?
HEDVIG.
Yes; for then things are pleasanter somehow.
GINA.
[_Thinking to herself._] Yes, yes, there’s something in that.
[OLD EKDAL _comes in again and is going out by the foremost door
to the left._
GINA.
[_Half turning in her chair._] Do you want something out of the kitchen,
grandfather?
EKDAL.
Yes, yes, I do. Don’t you trouble. _Goes out._
GINA.
He’s not poking away at the fire, is he? [_Waits a moment._] Hedvig, go
and see what he’s about.
[EKDAL _comes in again with a small jug of steaming hot water._
HEDVIG.
Have you been getting some hot water, grandfather?
EKDAL.
Yes, hot water. Want it for something. Want to write, and the ink has
got as thick as porridge.—h’m.
GINA.
But you’d best have your supper, first, grandfather. It’s laid in there.
EKDAL.
Can’t be bothered with supper, Gina. Very busy, I tell you. No one’s to
come to my room. No one—h’m.
[_He goes into his room;_ GINA _and_ HEDVIG _look at each
other._
GINA.
[_Softly._] Can you imagine where he’s got money from?
HEDVIG.
From Gråberg, perhaps.
GINA.
Not a bit of it. Gråberg always sends the money to me.
HEDVIG.
Then he must have got a bottle on credit somewhere.
GINA.
Poor grandfather, who’d give him credit?