Chapter 2

_HIALMAR EKDAL's Photographic Studio. Cameras, neck-rests, and other instruments of torture lying about. GINA EKDAL and HEDWIG, her daughter, aged 14, and wearing spectacles, discovered sitting up for HIALMAR._

_Hedvig_. Grandpapa is in his room with a bottle of brandy and a jug of hot water, doing some fresh copying work. Father is in society, dining out. He promised he would bring me home something nice!

_Hialmar_ (_coming in, in evening dress_). And he has not forgotten his promise, my child. Behold! (_he presents her with the menu card; HEDVIG gulps down her tears_; HIALMAR _notices her disappointment, with annoyance._) And this all the gratitude I get! After dining out and coming home in a dress-coat and boots, which are disgracefully tight! Well, well, just to show you how hurt I am, I won't have any _beer_ now! What a selfish brute I am! (_Relenting._) You may bring me just a little drop. (_He bursts into tears._) I will play you a plaintive Bohemian dance on my flute. (_He does._) No beer at such a sacred moment as this! (_He drinks._) Ha, this is real domestic bliss!

[_GREGERS WERLE comes in, in a countrified suit._

_Gregers_. I have left my father's home--dinner-party and all--for ever. I am coming to lodge with you.

_Hialmar_ (_still melancholy_). Have some bread and butter. You won't? then I _will_. I want it, after your father's lavish hospitality. (_HEDVIG goes to fetch bread and butter._) My daughter--a poor shortsighted little thing--but mine own.

_Gregers_. My father has had to take to strong glasses, too--he can hardly see after dinner. (_To Old EKDAL, who stumbles in very drunk._) How can you, Lieutenant EKDAL, who were such a keen sportsman once, live in this poky little hole?

_Old Ekdal_. I am a sportsman still. The only difference is that once I shot bears in a forest, and now I pot tame rabbits in a garret. Quite as amusing--and safer.

[_He goes to sleep on a sofa._

_Hialmar_ (_with pride_). It is quite true. You shall see.

[_He pushes back sliding doors, and reveals a garret full of rabbits and poultry--moonlight effect. HEDVIG returns with bread and butter._

_Hedvig_ (_to GREGERS_). If you stand just there, you get the best view of our Wild Duck. We are very proud of her, because she gives the play its title, you know, and has to be brought into the dialogue a good deal. Your father, peppered her out shooting, and we saved her life.

_Hialmar_. Yes, GREGERS, our estate is not large--but still we preserve, you see. And my poor old father and I sometimes get a day's gunning in the garret. He shoots with a pistol, which my illiterate wife here _will_ call a "pigstol." He once, when he got into trouble, pointed it at himself. But the descendant of two lieutenant-colonels who had never quailed before living rabbit yet, faltered then. He _didn't_ shoot. Then I put it to my own head. But at the decisive moment, I won the victory over myself. I remained in life. Now we only shoot rabbits and fowls with it. After all I am very happy and contented as I am. [_He eats some bread and butter._

_Gregers_. But you ought _not_ to be. You have a good deal of the Wild Duck about you. So have your wife and daughter. You are living in marsh vapours. To-morrow I will take you out for a walk and explain what I mean. It is my mission in life. Good night! [_He goes out._

_Gina and Hedwig_. What _was_ the gentleman talking about, Father?

_Hialmar_ (_eating bread and butter_). He has been dining, you know. No matter--what _we_ have to do now, is to put my disreputable old whitehaired pariah of a parent to bed.

[_He and GINA lift old ECCLES--we mean old EKDAL--up by the legs and arms, and take him off to led as the Curtain falls._

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COCKNEY MOTTO FOR A FEEBLE CRICKETER.--"Take 'Art of GRACE!"

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KEY TO THE PROPOSED HERALDIC DEVICE.

_Arms_.--Quarterly: 1. A female figure habited in white robes reaching to the ankles, with Arms elevated, all quite proper, for _Grace_. 2. A wildman or ratepayer rampant, for _Thrift_. 3. A bend (or bar) sinister on a chart vert, for _Bloomsbury_. 4. Three demi-councillors, wings elevated, regardant an empty seat, for _Vacancy_.

_Crest_.--On a beadle's hat erased, a new broom.

_Supporters_.--Dexter, a Paul Pry regardant, grasping an eyeglass sinister. Sinister, a Stiggins. Both gorged.

_Motto_.--"_Ubi nunc sumus?_"

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FAMILIARITY BREEDS RESPECT.

(_A PAGE FROM THE DIARY OF A WOULD-BE BUT COULDN'T-BE DUELLIST._)

_Monday_.--Arrived on the ground ready to fight my opponent to the death. We had just measured the ground, when an agent of Police appeared upon the scene, and we had to decamp hurriedly. Duel postponed till to-morrow.

_Tuesday_.--New spot chosen. Pistols this time instead of rapiers. Just as we were about to fire, appearance of the agents of the law. Postponement again absolutely necessary.

_Wednesday_.--Once more ready to meet. Both of us rather amused at the precautions we have to take to prevent interruption. Opponent obligingly suggested a new and suitable spot for the settlement of our little differences. Found it to be a most excellent selection, but before we could fight, once more interrupted. Both of us greatly annoyed, and arranged to meet to-morrow.

_Thursday_.--Amused to find myself first in the field--my opponent five minutes late. Both of us had come before the seconds, and so spent the time in a pleasant little chat, and cigarettes. My opponent not half a bad fellow when you come to know him. Just as he was in the middle of a most amusing story, our seconds arrived--with the Police! Postponement once more imperative.

_Friday_.--Opponent turned up first, and, at my request, completed his yesterday's story--one of the best I have ever heard. Most amusing chap--should have liked to have heard another, when, finding ourselves uninterrupted, we thought we had better seize the opportunity to settle our affair of honour. Our customary luck! Seemingly had just time to kill one another, when enter the Police! Programme as before.

_Saturday_.--Met again. Really quite pleased to have made the acquaintance of such a nice fellow as my opponent. Full of fun and anecdote. On comparing notes, we found that we had entirely forgotten what on earth we had quarrelled about. So shook hands and arranged that if we fired at anyone, our target should be the Police.

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A PLEA FOR THE CART-HORSE PARADE SOCIETY.

All who love English horses, and back English Trade, Should welcome the annual "Cart-Horse Parade." No function of Fashion on Racecourse or Row Should "fetch" our equestrian enthusiast so. First-rate English horses in holiday guise! A sight that to please a true Britisher's eyes. And then the Society--surely _that_ will be Supported by Britons. Ask good WALTER GILBEY (Cambridge House, Regent's Park). He will tell you no doubt What the C.-H.P.S. have, some time, been about. Fancy prizes to Carmen for care of their horses! That charms a horse-lover. To plump the resources Of such a Society--by their support In subscriptions--all friends of the horse and of sport Should surely be eager; so, horse-lovers willing, Despatch the gold pound plus the odd silver shilling!

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HISTORY AND ART.--Doubts have been thrown on the genuineness of the story about St. ELIZABETH of Hungary as illustrated by Mr. CALDERON's well-known and striking picture in this year's Academy. Mr. CALDERON affirms, according to the best of his high lights, that he has simply portrayed the naked truth. So far, in a certain sense, the Court is with him. Still, historians are neither unbiassed nor infallible, and painters are inclined to sacrifice much for effect. For our part, we should be inclined to refer the situation, which this picture illustrates, to some incident in the life of the celebrated Miss ELIZABETH MARTIN, generally known as "BETTY MARTIN." The legend may be found in some work by that voluminous writer _Finis_, or by the oft-quoted _Ibid_, under the quaint heading, _Historia Mei et Beati Martini_.

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THE PICK OF THE PICTURES. (AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY.)

No. 278. "_The Fleecy Charge_." A title that suggests an attempt at extortion, but is here applied to _A picture in wool-work_ by the veteran, T. SYDNEY COOPER, R.A. Of course whatever the artist may ask for it, it will always be "sheep at the price."

No. 388. "_Writing a Message to St. Helena_." Hope St. Helena received it. Probably forwarded by a winged messenger as suggested by the name of the artist, which is EYRE CROWE, A.

No. 519. "_Gorse_." By DAVID MURRAY. Good? Why certainly, as a matter of gorse.

No. 697. Rather mixed subject, being "_Eventide_" by KNIGHT.

No. 1161. "_A Maiden Fair_." By G.A. STOREY, A. Never heard of such a thing as "a Maiden Fair," except in Oriental countries. She seems to be having all the fun of the Fair to herself. This concludes a series of Storeys in four numbers, 356, 704, 1043 and 1161, making up his "Tale." "And now my STOREY's done," that is, for this Season.

SCULPTURE.

No. 1962. "_Triumph_" of ADRIAN JONES. It is so. Quite a triumph. The SMITHS, BROWNS and ROBINSONS nowhere compared with A. JONES.

No. 2001. "_H.M. Stanley--bust._" Is he? Poor STANLEY! It is to be hoped that the EMIN-ent explorer will forgive the sculptor, who is C.B. BIRCH, A. Fancy the indomitable STANLEY never yet beaten, but BIRCH'd at last!

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MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.

NO. XVIII.--MARIAN MUFFET: A ROMANCE OF BLACKMORE.

(_BY_ R.D. EXMOOR, _AUTHOR OF "BORN A SPOON;" "PADDOCK ROWEL;" "WIT AND WITTY;" "TIPS FOR MARRIERS;" "SCARE A FAWN;" "'BRELLAS FOR RAIN," &C., &C., &C._)

["This," writes Mr. EXMOOR, "is another of my simple tales. Yet I send it forth into the world thinking that haply there may be some, and they not of the baser sort, who reading therein as the humour takes them, may draw from it nurture for their minds. For truly it is in the nature of fruit-trees, whereof, without undue vaunting, I may claim to know somewhat, that the birds of the air, the tits, the wrens, ay, even unto the saucy little sparrows, whose firm spirit in warfare hath ever been one of my chiefest marvels, should gather in the branches seeking for provender. So in books, and herein too I have some small knowledge, those that are of the ripest sort are ever the first to be devoured. And if the public be pleased, how shall he that made the book feel aught but gratitude. Therefore I let it go, not being blind in truth to the faults thereof, but with humble confidence too in much compensating merit."]