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HADDA PADDA

FOREWORD

The value of this play lies in the fact that, beneath the surface, it vibrates with the quivering, intensely pulsating forces of life. The speeches breathe. The leading characters not only have perspicuity, but each has its own representative melodic theme. There is as music under the text, a constant accompaniment of exquisite passion, rising, sinking, and now rising once more, in a struggle with vacillating sensual pleasure and base inclination to supersede others. Around the simple action there is an atmosphere of poetry. The play opens with the superstition of olden times, in the old nurse's tale about the life-egg, suggested to her by a crystal ball, with which the sisters are playing. Modern superstition is woven into the beautiful scene, where Hadda Padda, with heroically mastered despair, meets the herborist who talks of her plants in a calm poetic manner, reminiscent of the way Ophelia speaks of the flowers she has picked and collected.

The drama stands or falls with Hadda Padda, that is to say, it STANDS. She holds it with a firm hand, as the Saint in the old paintings bears the church. In her, the Iceland of ancient and modern times meets. She has more warmth, more kindness of heart, more womanly affection, than any antique figure from a Saga. She gives herself completely, resignedly. She is tender and she is mild, without being meek. In her inmost self, however, she is proud. When first this pride is touched, then hurt, and finally the very woman in her is mortally wounded, it is at once perceptible that she descends from the strong, wild women of olden times. The wildness has become resolution, the pride has become poise, the strength has remained unchanged. She plays with life and death like the heroes of a thousand years ago. She faces death without flinching, and despite all her goodness, her delicacy, her kindly love for the old and the young, for the humble and the poor, for animals and plants, at the bottom of her nature she is heathen. In life's last moments, with death and revenge in mind, she can still pretend, invent, dupe. Such profound and exquisite womanhood, such inflexible masculine will, have hardly ever been seen combined on the stage before.

GEORG BRANDES.

INTRODUCTION

Iceland has always been famous for the quality of her literature, although nowadays but little of it comes to our shores. It is, therefore, an especial pleasure to introduce the author of "Hadda Padda."

Godmundur Kamban, son of a merchant of an old and well known Icelandic family, was born near Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland, on June 8, 1888. He was graduated twenty-two years later from the College of Reykjavik, where he received honoris causa in literature and language, the first and only time this prize has ever been awarded. While still at college, he was made assistant editor of the best known newspaper in Iceland, edited by Bjorn Jonsson, the late Prime Minister, in whose home Mr. Kamban lived during his college career. In 1910, he proceeded to the University of Copenhagen, where he specialized in literature and received his Master's degree. In Copenhagen, Peter Jerndorff, the famous Acteur Royal, practically regarded him as his own son. Under Jerndorff's direction for five years, he obtained that thorough dramatic education which is so essential to the fastidious Scandinavian Theatre, and to which Ibsen also served an apprenticeship.

"Hadda Padda," Mr. Kamban's first dramatic work, was written in Denmark in 1912, while he was still a student at the University of Copenhagen. Originally written in Icelandic, it was translated into Danish and submitted to the Royal Theatre, a fortress difficult of access to the newcomer. This theatre did not even fully recognise such masters as Ibsen and Bjornson until they stood on the heights of achievement. Our author was but twenty-four years old, unknown, and offering his first play.

From the outset "Hadda Padda" caused the directors unexpected trouble. It took them four times as long as usual to come to a decision. They finally accepted it "on account of its literary merit," but without any obligation on their part to produce it, as the scenery of the last act was of "such daring and dangerous character."

There was but one thing to do and Mr. Kamban did it. His play was published by Gyldendal, the most distinguished of the Scandinavian publishers. He sent a copy to Georg Brandes, as do thousands of authors from all parts of the world. Next evening he received a letter from the great critic, telling him that he had read the play, and asking Mr. Kamban to call on him at his home. A few days later, when he spent four hours with Brandes at and after table, the latter told him that he received on an average twelve volumes a day from different authors of every nationality, and were he to do nothing else, he could not read even one twelfth of them. "But I am going to write an article about your play," he concluded. Thus was Mr. Kamban's place as an artist assured.

In spite of the unanimous recognition the play received from the press, the theatre still refused to produce it, as nearly all the authorities agreed that it would be "hardly possible to stage." Finally, the new chief of the theatre, Count F. Brockenhuus-Schack, determined to carry the matter through. The author then undertook to stage the play, designed the scenes, and arranged the mise-en-scene to the minutest detail. On November 14, 1914, the first performance took place. He sat in the latticed author's box. The first three acts went smoothly, interrupted at times by applause. The fourth act, the one talked about and difficult, was still to come. The fate of the play depended on this act. The curtain rose, and with the slowness of life the act proceeded. The silence of the audience was uncanny. Toward the end, the foremost theatrical critic of the city rose to his feet and raised his hand as if in horror. The curtain fell. Not a hand stirred. A whole minute elapsed and Mr. Kamban left the box, refusing to himself to admit the failure. Then suddenly a wild enthusiasm broke loose and lasted several minutes. According to the regulations--unique in Europe--of the Royal Theatre, the curtain may not be raised for any author or actor except at a jubilee. The public, however, refused to leave the theatre till the manager had escorted Mr. Kamban to the dais in front of the curtain, and there he expressed his thanks to the audience.

After four months in Copenhagen, "Hadda Padda" toured the Scandinavian Countries, and preparations were being made for its production in Germany, when the war broke out, and the German theatres were indefinitely closed to foreign dramatists. That is why, two years ago, he came to America.

CHARACTERS

SKULI, the town judge. LADY ANNA, his wife. HRAFNHILD, called HADDA PADDA; KRISTRUN; their daughters. LITTLE SKULI, their grandson. RANNVEIG, Hadda Padda's nurse. THE SHERIFF OF BREIDABOL. LADY MARGARET, his wife. INGOLF, law student; OLOF; their children. STEINDOR, Olof's husband, the sheriff's secretary. SIGGA; DODDI; MAGGA; Steindor's and Olof's children. AN HERBORIST. NATIVE AND FOREIGN SUMMER TOURISTS.

PLACE: Iceland. TIME: Present.

HADDA PADDA

ACT I

RANNVEIG . Take care! Don't drop the ball! Who knows--maybe it is your life-egg, children!

KRISTRUN. Life-egg!... Is that a fairy-tale?

RANNVEIG. Haven't you ever heard it? Come, let me tell you about it. Once upon a time there lived two giantesses who were sisters. One day, they lured a young prince to them. They let the prince sleep under a coverlet woven of gold, while they themselves slept under one woven of silver. When at last the prince pledged himself in marriage to one of them, he made them tell him how they spent the day in the forest. They went hunting deer and birds, and when they rested, they sat down under an oak, and threw their life-egg to each other. If they broke it they both would die. The next day, the prince went to the forest, and saw the sisters sitting there, under the oak. One of them was holding a golden egg in her hand, and just as she tossed it into the air, he hurled his spear. It hit the egg, and broke it--the giantesses fell down, dead.

KRISTRUN. Brave giantesses who dared to treat your sacred possession so heedlessly!

RANNVEIG. One does not hear the footstep of vengeance. It came to them unexpectedly.

KRISTRUN. How I wish my whole fate were held in this ball.

RANNVEIG. What would you do if it were?

KRISTRUN. I would lay it gently in the hand of the man I loved, saying: Take it to a safe place!--and I would shut my eyes--while he were searching for the place.

RANNVEIG. If my sister were here, perhaps she could read your fate in the ball, both the past and the future... Who knows, but the whole Universe may be mirrored in this one glass globe.

KRISTRUN. That's your favorite superstition. Tell me, Veiga--haven't you a life-egg?

RANNVEIG . I had one once....

KRISTRUN . Then you haven't it any more?

RANNVEIG. No.

KRISTRUN. And you are still alive?

RANNVEIG. He who lived once in happiness dies twice. Don't throw the ball so carelessly.

KRISTRUN. Be calm. The prince won't come. And even if he came--do you think we have the same life-egg, I and Hrafnhild?

RANNVEIG. Now stop making fun of me! The ball may hit you in the face--there now!--that's enough!--you nearly dazed my Hadda. It is strange to like to do this.

KRISTRUN. Tell me, Veiga, perhaps your life-egg was a young man's heart....

RANNVEIG. We won't talk about it any more.

KRISTRUN. And how did it break?

KRISTRUN. There--there, don't snarl so, you're simply barking--bow, wow!

RANNVEIG . How many have you made fools of already?

KRISTRUN. Let me see--. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven... twelve... thirteen--ah! here's a hole in my stocking. Thirteen! Thirteen, Veiga dear! The unlucky number! Wonderful! I'll never throw him over!

RANNVEIG. You're horribly flippant, Kristrun.

KRISTRUN . Fancy, Veiga, I see your whole fate in the ball.

RANNVEIG. Leave the crystal alone, it won't hurt you.

KRISTRUN. As sure as I live--I can see the most trivial events in your life. I see you by day, in this room here, when your nose begins to itch, and you steal into the kitchen to take a pinch of snuff. I see....

KRISTRUN . Look out, the snuff is dripping from your nose!

HADDA PADDA. You and Runa don't seem to get on any better since I've been away.

RANNVEIG. We have never gotten along together.... I don't understand the young people nowadays. They are merely butterflies--all of them.

HADDA PADDA. You once told me, dear, that sometime in every one's life there comes a wishing hour. Maybe Runa had hers when she wished for the joy of living.

RANNVEIG. It's a strange joy then, to want to make other people miserable! To use the beauty God has given her, against those who cannot resist it.... Why do you suppose the new engineer has stopped coming here since the son of the Chief Justice returned from Copenhagen--and he seemed like such a sweet boy too! It is not the first or the second time she has changed her mind.

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