Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (234 page)

HEDVIG.
Yes, when I can manage it —

GREGERS.
But I suppose you haven’t much spare time; you go to school, no doubt.

HEDVIG.
No, not now; father is afraid of my hurting my eyes.

GREGERS.
Oh; then he reads with you himself?

HEDVIG.
Father has promised to read with me; but he has never had time yet.

GREGERS.
Then is there nobody else to give you a little help?

HEDVIG.
Yes, there is Mr. Molvik; but he is not always exactly — quite —

GREGERS.
Sober?

HEDVIG.
Yes, I suppose that’s it!

GREGERS.
Why, then you must have any amount of time on your hands. And in there I suppose it is a sort world by itself?

HEDVIG.
Oh, yes, quite. And there are such lots of wonderful things.

GREGERS.
Indeed?

HEDVIG.
Yes, there are big cupboards full of books; and a great many of the books have pictures in them.

GREGERS.
Aha!

HEDVIG.
And there’s an old bureau with drawers and flaps, and a big clock with figures that go out and in. But the clock isn’t going now.

GREGERS.
So time has come to a standstill in there — in the wild duck’s domain.

HEDVIG.
Yes. And then there’s an old paint-box and things of that sort; and all the books.

GREGERS.
And you read the books, I suppose?

HEDVIG.
Oh, yes, when I get the chance. Most of them are English though, and I don’t understand English. But then I look at the pictures. — There is one great big book called “Harrison’s History of London.” It must be a hundred years old; and there are such heaps of pictures in it. At the beginning there is Death with an hour-glass and a woman. I think that is horrid. But then there are all the other pictures of churches, and castles, and streets, and great ships sailing on the sea.

GREGERS.
But tell me, where did all those wonderful things come from?

HEDVIG.
Oh, an old sea captain once lived here, and he brought them home with him. They used to call him “The Flying Dutchman.” That was curious, because he wasn’t a Dutchman at all.

GREGERS.
Was he not?

HEDVIG.
No. But at last he was drowned at sea; and so he left all those things behind him.

GREGERS.
Tell me now — when you are sitting in there looking at the pictures, don’t you wish you could travel and see the real world for yourself?

HEDVIG.
Oh, no! I mean always to stay at home and help father and mother.

GREGERS.
To retouch photographs?

HEDVIG.
No, not only that. I should love above everything to learn to engrave pictures like those in the English books.

GREGERS.
H’m. What does your father say to that?

HEDVIG.
I don’t think father likes it; father is strange about such things. Only think, he talks of my learning basket-making, and straw-plaiting! But I don’t think that would be much good.

GREGERS.
Oh, no, I don’t think so either.

HEDVIG.
But father was right in saying that if I had learnt basket-making I could have made the new basket for the wild duck.

GREGERS.
So you could; and it was you that ought to have done it, wasn’t it?

HEDVIG.
Yes, for it’s my wild duck.

GREGERS.
Of course it is.

HEDVIG.
Yes, it belongs to me. But I lend it to father and grandfather as often as they please.

GREGERS.
Indeed? What do they do with it?

HEDVIG.
Oh, they look after it, and build places for it, and so on.

GREGERS.
I see; for no doubt the wild duck is by far the most distinguished inhabitant of the garret?

HEDVIG.
Yes, indeed she is; for she is a real wild fowl, you know. And then she is so much to be pitied; she has no one to care for, poor thing.

GREGERS.
She has no family, as the rabbits have —

HEDVIG.
No. The hens too, many of them, were chickens together; but she has been taken right away from all her friends. And then there is so much that is strange about the wild duck. Nobody knows her, and nobody knows where she came from either.

GREGERS.
And she has been down in the depths of the sea.

HEDVIG
[with a quick glance at him, represses a smile and asks:]
Why do you say “depths of the sea”?

GREGERS.
What else should I say?

HEDVIG.
You could say “the bottom of the sea.”

GREGERS.
Oh, mayn’t I just as well say the depths of the sea?

HEDVIG.
Yes; but it sounds so strange to me when other people speak of the depths of the sea.

GREGERS.
Why so? Tell me why?

HEDVIG.
No, I won’t; it’s so stupid.

GREGERS.
Oh, no, I am sure it’s not. Do tell me why you smiled.

HEDVIG.
Well, this is the reason: whenever I come to realise suddenly — in a flash — what is in there, it always seems to me that the whole room and everything in it should be called “the depths of the sea.” But that is so stupid.

GREGERS.
You mustn’t say that.

HEDVIG.
Oh, yes, for you know it is only a garret.

GREGERS
[looks fixedly at her.]
Are you so sure of that?

HEDVIG
[astonished.]
That it’s a garret?

GREGERS.
Are you quite certain of it?

[HEDVIG is silent, and looks at him open-mouthed. GINA comes in from the kitchen with the table things.]

GREGERS
[rising.]
I have come in upon you too early.

GINA.
Oh, you must be somewhere; and we’re nearly ready now, any way. Clear the table, Hedvig.
[HEDVIG clears away her things; she and GINA lay the cloth during what follows. GREGERS seats himself in the arm-chair, and turns over an album.]

GREGERS.
I hear you can retouch, Mrs. Ekdal.

GINA
[with a side glance.]
Yes, I can.

GREGERS.
That was exceedingly lucky.

GINA.
How — lucky?

GREGERS.
Since Ekdal took to photography, I mean.

HEDVIG.
Mother can take photographs, too.

GINA.
Oh, yes; I was bound to learn that.

GREGERS.
So it is really you that carry on the business, I suppose?

GINA.
Yes, when Ekdal hasn’t time himself —

GREGERS.
He is a great deal taken up with his old father, I daresay.

GINA.
Yes; and then you can’t expect a man like Ekdal to do nothing but take car-de-visits of Dick, Tom and Harry.

GREGERS.
I quite agree with you; but having once gone in for the thing —

GINA.
You can surely understand, Mr. Werle, that Ekdal’s not like one of your common photographers.

GREGERS.
Of course not; but still —
[A shot is fired within the garret.]

GREGERS
[starting up.]
What’s that?

GINA.
Ugh! now they’re firing again!

GREGERS.
Have they firearms in there?

HEDVIG.
They are out shooting.

GREGERS.
What!
[At the door of the garret.]
Are you shooting, Hialmar?

HIALMAR
[inside the net.]
Are you there? I didn’t know; I was so taken up —
[To HEDVIG.]
Why did you not let us know?
[Comes into the studio.]

GREGERS.
Do you go shooting in the garret?

HIALMAR
[showing a double-barrelled pistol.]
Oh, only with this thing.

GINA.
Yes, you and grandfather will do yourselves a mischief some day with that there pigstol.

HIALMAR
[with irritation.]
I believe I have told you that this kind of firearm is called a pistol.

GINA.
Oh, that doesn’t make it much better, that I can see.

GREGERS.
So you have become a sportsman, too, Hialmar?

HIALMAR.
Only a little rabbit-shooting now and then. Mostly to please father, you understand.

GINA.
Men are strange beings; they must always have something to pervert theirselves with.

HIALMAR
[snappishly.]
Just so; we must always have something to divert ourselves with.

GINA.
Yes, that’s just what I say.

HIALMAR.
H’m.
[To GREGERS.]
You see the garret is fortunately so situated that no one can hear us shooting.
[Lays the pistol on the top shelf of the bookcase.]
Don’t touch the pistol, Hedvig! One of the barrels is loaded; remember that.

GREGERS
[looking through the net.]
You have a fowling-piece too, I see.

HIALMAR.
That is father’s old gun. It’s of no use now; something has gone wrong with the lock. But it’s fun to have it all the same; for we can take it to pieces now and then, and clean and grease it, and screw it together again. — Of course, it’s mostly father that fiddle-faddles with all that sort of thing.

HEDVIG
[beside GREGERS.]
Now you can see the wild duck properly.

GREGERS.
I was just looking at her. One of her wings seems to me to droop a bit.

HEDVIG.
Well, no wonder; her wing was broken, you know.

GREGERS.
And she trails one foot a little. Isn’t that so?

HIALMAR.
Perhaps a very little bit.

HEDVIG.
Yes, it was by that foot the dog took hold of her.

HIALMAR.
But otherwise she hasn’t the least thing the matter with her; and that is simply marvellous for a creature that has a charge of shot in her body, and has been between a dog’s teeth —

GREGERS
[with a glance at HEDVIG]
 
— and that has lain in the depths of the sea — so long.

HEDVIG
[smiling.]
Yes.

GINA
[laying the table.]
That blessed wild duck! What a lot of fuss you do make over her.

HIALMAR.
H’m; — will lunch soon be ready?

GINA.
Yes, directly. Hedvig, you must come and help me now.
[GINA and HEDVIG go out into the kitchen.]

HIALMAR
[in a low voice.]
I think you had better not stand there looking in at father; he doesn’t like it.

[GREGERS moves away from the garret door.]

Besides, I may as well shut up before the others come.
[Claps his hands to drive the fowls back.]
Shh — shh, in with you!
[Draws up the curtain and pulls the doors together.]
All the contrivances are my own invention. It’s really quite amusing to have things of this sort to potter with, and to put to rights when they get out of order. And it’s absolutely necessary, too; for Gina objects to having rabbits and fowls in the studio.

GREGERS.
To be sure; and I suppose the studio is your wife’s special department?

HIALMAR.
As a rule, I leave the everyday details of business to her; for then I can take refuge in the parlour and give my mind to more important things.

GREGERS.
What things may they be, Hialmar?

HIALMAR.
I wonder you have not asked that question sooner. But perhaps you haven’t heard of the invention?

GREGERS.
The invention? No.