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!