[_She goes into the back room and draws the curtains. Short pause.

Suddenly she is heard playing_ "The Bogie Man" _within on the piano._

GEORGE.

But, dearest Hedda, don't play "_The Bogie Man_" this evening. As one of my aunts is dead, and poor old Lovborg has shot himself, it seems just a little pointed, eh?

HEDDA.

[_Puts her head out between the curtains._] All right.

I'll be quiet after this. I'm going to practise with the late General Gabler's pistol!

[_Closes the curtains again;_ GEORGE _gets behind the stove_, JUDGE BRACK _under the table, and_ MRS. ELVSTED _under the sofa. A shot is heard within._

GEORGE.

[_Behind the stove._] Eh, look here, I tell you what--she's. .h.i.t me!

Think of that!

[_His legs are visibly agitated for a short time. Another shot is heard._

MRS. ELVSTED.

[_Under the sofa._] Oh, please, not me! Oh, goodness, now I can't inspire anybody any more. Oh!

[_Her feet, which can be seen under the valance, quiver a little and then are suddenly still._

BRACK.

[_Vivaciously, from under the table._] I say, Mrs. Hedda, I'm coming in every evening--we will have great fun here togeth----[_Another shot is heard._] Bless me! to bring down the poor old c.o.c.k-of-the-walk--it's unsportsmanlike!--people don't _do_ such things as that!

[_The table-cloth is violently agitated for a minute, and presently the curtains open, and_ HEDDA _appears._

HEDDA.

[_Clearly and firmly._] I've been trying in there to shoot myself beautifully--but with General Gabler's pistol--[_She lifts the table-cloth, then looks behind the stove and under the sofa._] What! the accounts of all those everlasting bores settled? Then my suicide becomes unnecessary. Yes, I feel the courage of life once more!

[_She goes into the back-room and plays_ "The Funeral March of a Marionette" _as the Curtain falls._]

[Ill.u.s.tration: "What! the accounts of all those everlasting bores settled?"]

* * * * *

THE WILD DUCK

ACT FIRST

_At_ WERLE'S _house. In front a richly-upholstered study._ (R.) _A green baize door leading to_ WERLE'S _office. At back, open folding doors, revealing an elegant dining-room, in which a brilliant Norwegian dinner-party is going on. Hired Waiters in profusion. A gla.s.s is tapped with a knife. Shouts of "Bravo!" Old Mr._ WERLE _is heard making a long speech, proposing--according to the custom of Norwegian society on such occasions--the health of his House-keeper, Mrs._ SoRBY. _Presently several short-sighted, flabby, and thin-haired_ CHAMBERLAINS _enter from the dining-room with_ HIALMAR EKDAL, _who writhes shyly under their remarks._

A CHAMBERLAIN.

As we are the sole surviving specimens of Norwegian n.o.bility, suppose we sustain our reputation as aristocratic sparklers by enlarging upon the enormous amount we have eaten, and chaffing Hialmar Ekdal, the friend of our host's son, for being a professional photographer?

THE OTHER CHAMBERLAINS.

Bravo! We will.

[_They do; delight of_ HIALMAR. OLD WERLE _comes in, leaning on his Housekeeper's arm, followed by his son,_ GREGERS WERLE.

OLD WERLE.

[_Dejectedly._] Thirteen at table! [_To_ GREGERS, _with a meaning glance at_ HIALMAR.] This is the result of inviting an old college friend who has turned photographer! Wasting vintage wines on _him_, indeed. [_He pa.s.ses on gloomily._

HIALMAR.

[_To_ GREGERS.] I am almost sorry I came. Your old man is _not_ friendly. Yet he set me up as a photographer fifteen years ago. _Now_ he takes me down! But for him, I should never have married Gina, who, you may remember, was a servant in your family once.

GREGERS.

What? my old college friend married fifteen years ago--and to our Gina, of all people! If I had not been up at the works all these years, I suppose I should have heard something of such an event. But my father never mentioned it. Odd!

[_He ponders_; OLD EKDAL _comes out through the green baize-door, bowing, and begging pardon, carrying copying work_. OLD WERLE _says "Ugh" and "Pah" involuntarily._ HIALMAR _shrinks back, and looks another way. A_ CHAMBERLAIN _asks him pleasantly if he knows that old man._

HIALMAR.

I--oh no. Not in the least. No relation!

GREGERS.

[_Shocked._] What, Hialmar, you, with your great soul, deny your own father!

HIALMAR.

[_Vehemently._] Of course--what else _can_ a photographer do with a disreputable old parent, who has been in a penitentiary for making a fraudulent map? I shall leave this splendid banquet. The Chamberlains are not kind to me, and I feel the crushing hand of fate on my head!

[_Goes out hastily, feeling it._

MRS. SoRBY.

[_Archly._] Any n.o.bleman here say "Cold Punch"?

[_Every n.o.bleman says "Cold Punch" and follows her out in search of it with enthusiasm._ GREGERS _approaches his father, who wishes he would go_.

GREGERS.

Father, a word with you in private. I loathe you. I am nothing if not candid. Old Ekdal was your partner once, and it's my firm belief you deserved a prison quite as much as he did. However, you surely need not have married our Gina to my old friend Hialmar. You know very well she was no better than she should have been!

[Ill.u.s.tration: