Gina.  Gracious, what a sight you are!  Sit down and have some breakfast, do. [She brings it.

Hialmar (indignantly).  What! touch food under this roof?  Never! (Helps himself to bread-and-butter and coffee.) Go and pack up my scientific uncut books, my manuscripts, and all the best rabbits, in my portmanteau.  I am going away for ever.  On second thoughts, I shall stay in the spare room for another day or two—­it won’t be the same as living with you!

    [He takes some salt meat.

Gregers. Must you go?  Just when you’ve got nice firm ground to build upon—­thanks to me!  Then there’s your great invention, too.

Hialmar.  Everything’s invented already.  And I only cared about my invention because, although it doesn’t exist yet, I thought HEDVIG believed in it, with all the strength of her sweet little shortsighted eyes!  But now I don’t believe in HEDVIG!

[Illustration]

    [He pours himself out another cup of coffee.

Gregers (earnestly).  But, HIALMAR, if I can prove to you that she is ready to sacrifice her cherished Wild Duck?  See!

    [He pushes back sliding-door, and discovers HEDVIG aiming
    at the Wild Duck with the butt-end of the pistol.  Tableau.

Gina (excitedly).  But don’t you see?  It’s the pigstol—­that fatal Norwegian weapon which, in Ibsenian dramas, never shoots straight!  And she has got it by the wrong end too.  She will shoot herself!

Gregers (quietly).  She will!  Let the child make amends.  It will be a most realistic and impressive finale!

Gina.  No, no—­put down the pigstol, HEDVIG.  Do you hear, child?

Hedvig (still aiming).  I hear—­but I shan’t unless father tells me to.

Gregers.  HIALMAR, show the great soul I always said you had.  This sorrow will set free what is noble in you.  Don’t spoil a fine situation.  Be a man!  Let the child shoot herself!

Hialmar (irresolutely).  Well, really I don’t know.  There’s a good deal in what GREGERS says.  Hm!

Gina.  A good deal of tomfool rubbish!  I’m illiterate, I know.  I’ve been a Wild Duck in my time, and I waddle.  But for all that, I’m the only person in the play with a grain of common-sense.  And I’m sure—­whatever Mr. IBSEN or GREGERS choose to say—­that a screaming burlesque like this ought not to end like a tragedy—­even in this queer Norway of ours!  And it shan’t, either!  Tell the child to put that nasty pigstol down and come away, do!

Hialmar (yielding).  Ah, well, I am a farcical character myself, after all.  Don’t touch a hair of that duck’s head, HEDVIG.  Come to my arms and all shall be forgiven!