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Godmunder Kamban >> Hadda Padda
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HADDA PADDA
GODMUNDER KAMBAN
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.
K.
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.
There is an interval of a year between Acts I and II; of a week
between Acts II and III. One night elapses between Acts III and
IV.
PLACE: Iceland. TIME: Present.
HADDA PADDA
ACT I
(A luxuriously furnished drawing-room in the house of the Town
Judge. On the right, in front, a door. In the middle rear an open
door draped with rich, heavy, deep-red curtains. On the left a
large window. In the corner, between the window and the door, a
grand piano, behind which stands a palm, the leaves spreading over
the piano. In front, on the left, a divan. Alongside of it is a
pedestal with a black terra cotta statue on it.)
(Hadda Padda and Kristrun are sitting toward the front, in large
deep arm-chairs, throwing a crystal ball to each other. Near by is
a small table, covered with a piece of velvet, on which the ball
had lain. Hadda Padda is very sunburnt.)
RANNVEIG [enters from behind. She is knitting, keeping the ball of
yarn under her arm. She is dressed in an Icelandic costume]. Take
care! Don't drop the ball! [Drops a stitch, takes it up again--
smiles.] 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. [Takes a chair and sits down beside them.] 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. [Smiling
surreptitiously.] Tell me, Veiga--haven't you a life-egg? [Turns
abruptly from her, throwing the ball to Hadda.]
RANNVEIG [evasively]. I had one once. ...
KRISTRUN [catching the ball]. Then you haven't it any more?
RANNVEIG. No.
KRISTRUN. And you are still alive?
RANNVEIG. He who lived once in happiness dies twice. [Sees the
sisters throw the ball faster and faster.] 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. [Picks up the ball, and puts it back
on the velvet.]
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?
RANNVEIG [enraged]. At least I didn't play with it. _I_ never
played with anybody else's feelings.
KRISTRUN. There--there, don't snarl so, you're simply barking--
bow, wow!
RANNVEIG [furious]. How many have you made fools of already?
KRISTRUN. Let me see--. [Counts on her fingers.] One, two, three,
four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, [throws off one shoe,
and counts on her toes] 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 [sits down at the small table, shades her face as she
looks into the ball]. 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. ... [Looks up; Rannveig has come up to her, and is
about to strike her.]
KRISTRUN [slipping away from her]. Look out, the snuff is dripping
from your nose! [Runs out, Rannveig shuts the door behind her, and
turns around. She passes her finger under her nose, looks at it,
shakes her head.]
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.
HADDA PADDA. When a true and deep love comes to her, she will not
change her mind.
RANNVEIG. It's no use to stand up for her; she wheedles them all.
HADDA PADDA. But still you told me, dear, that you would be fonder
of me if I did not marry.
RANNVEIG. How can you say that, Hadda dear? I said that marriage
doesn't always bring happiness. HADDA PADDA. I know. You told me
that only to console me, because I am now twenty-six years old.
Runa is nineteen, prettier than most girls, and a wild little imp,
surrounded by young men all the time. And they play upon her
vanity only to make her cruel. [Stands up.]
RANNVEIG. At her age you were prettier, and are, still, but you
were not like that. No, she hasn't your character.
KRISTRUN [enters from behind]. The prince is coming! [Rannveig
gathers her knitting, and drops the yarn. Kristrun jumps at it
like a cat, and catches it.] Now I'll dance for you, Veiga dear.
[She whirls around her, singing, yarn in hand, twisting the thread
around the old woman. They listen for footsteps. Rannveig slips
out, on the right, entangled in the yarn, Kristrun following.]
INGOLF [enters. Like Hadda, he is sunburnt].
HADDA PADDA. How do you do! You promised to be here earlier, dear.
[Kisses him.]
INGOLF. What time is it? [About to take out his watch.]
HADDA PADDA [catching his hands]. I don't know. But I felt the
moment slipping by, when you should have been here.
INGOLF [kisses her again].
HADDA PADDA. While I was sitting there, in the arm-chair, waiting
for you, I closed my eyes, and do you know what I saw?
INGOLF. No.
HADDA PADDA [pointing to the crystal]. I saw the crystal ball
through my eyelashes.
INGOLF [smiling]. Then you did not close your eyes--
HADDA PADDA. No, I cheated. [They laugh.] ... and then I began to
throw the crystal ball to Runa, do you know why?
INGOLF. No--?
HADDA PADDA. So as to lure back an old recollection. ... Do you
remember, it was your last winter at the Latin school. One day you
came home, and we two were alone in the room here, you took the
ball, threw it to me, and called: WISHING--! I caught it, and
said:--STONE! And so we continued to play, till you called HADDA!
I didn't quite follow your trick at first, but caught the word:
PADDA! Then you laughed and said: From now on, you shall never be
called anything but HADDA PADDA. Do you remember?
INGOLF. I do.
HADDA PADDA. Everybody calls me that now, except my nurse.
RANNVEIG [peeping in through the curtain]. Don't let me hear that
name. Hf! Padda! That's an insect! [Disappears.]
HADDA PADDA [walks gently forth, and rolls the door back]. Then I
asked you what christening gift I was to have. You gave me your
first kiss.
INGOLF [sits down on the divan, takes Hadda on his knee]. Hadda
Padda! You don't know how I love that name. You don't know how
many times I have wrapped you in it, as in some fantastic mantle.
After you had left Copenhagen last spring, and I sat reading all
the live-long day, until at last I went to bed, my lips did not
close on your name, till my eyes had closed on your picture.
HADDA PADDA. You must never call me anything but that. Each time
you say it, it brings back the joy of your first kiss.
INGOLF. Were you really in love with me then?
HADDA PADDA. You don't know? ... Then I did succeed in hiding it?
INGOLF. Why did you hide it, Hadda? Why, I almost believed you
bore me a grudge. You seemed to hold more aloof each day.
HADDA PADDA. And even that did not betray me?
INGOLF. Why did you hide it, Hadda?
(Footsteps are heard outside.)
HADDA PADDA [kisses Ingolf hastily, gets up, and seats herself at
his side, takes his hand]. Don't you understand, dear, I was
afraid of knowing the certainty. The stronger my love grew, the
more carefully I had to hide it. I dared not risk those beautiful
dream-children of uncertainty for a disguised certainty. Whenever
we talked together, and you looked up at me, I was startled. I
thought you understood, and your hurried glance reached me only
after the fear of seeing the answer in it.
INGOLF. You, the most sincere of women, could cherish so strong a
love and seem so cold.
HADDA PADDA. Now I have made too great a virtue of my love. Some
of my reserve was pride. Just think, you lived with us during your
entire schooltime, and in the summer sister and I were by turns at
your home. We grew up, you, handsome and manly, and a lord of
pleasures; and you always seemed to be careful not to pay me
greater attention than the other girls, especially at parties.
That was why I drew back.--I was eighteen, you were twenty; you
were graduated and went abroad. And poor, proud little Hadda Padda
was left alone.
INGOLF. Poor proud little Hadda Padda. [They laugh.]
HADDA PADDA. Then when you came back the next spring, it was
Kristrun's turn to go to the country. And since then, you have not
been home during the summer.
INGOLF. And when you went to Copenhagen the following winter, it
just happened to be the only year I stayed home.
HADDA PADDA. Then I thought it surely was the will of fate to
separate us. But I loved you even more. I could not give up hope.
Not even when you wrote home, the year before last, that you had
decided to live abroad. I got that news on the shortest day of the
year. I watched the twilight darken into night until the very
blackness swam before my eyes in blood-red spots. It was then I
made up my mind to go.
INGOLF. Yes, you came in the autumn.
HADDA PADDA. And it was not before December, at a meeting of the
Icelandic Society--we sat alone, in an outer room. Then I placed
my fate in your hand.
INGOLF. Then you placed your hand in mine.
HADDA PADDA. Then I placed my life in your hand. I willed all my
power into my hand and placed it in yours. That instant, nothing
but my hand lived. Had you thrust it away, I would not now be
living.
INGOLF. How silently happiness steals upon us. We sat alone in the
room, far from the din of the dance. Then it came. I heard its
tread in the quiver of your breath. ... Then I felt it in my hand.
HADDA PADDA. And yet you sat there immovable, and made the very
seconds fight for my life. When I held your hand, I was afraid
lest a single finger tremble--till you closed your hand around my
wrist, and drew me to you. [She leans toward him.]
INGOLF. Do you know what attracted me most to you?
HADDA PADDA. You don't know yourself.
INGOLF. Why not ...?
HADDA PADDA. Because you love me.
INGOLF. But I think I know now.
HADDA PADDA. Well, what is it?
INGOLF. The thing that kept us apart so long.
HADDA PADDA. And that is? ...
INGOLF. Your reticence. That awaiting attitude you just called
pride. I have known other women. They came to me without first
listening to my heart ... but you did not.
HADDA PADDA. I looked into your eyes. I saw the flame in them
increase, the longer they gazed at me.
INGOLF. The human heart is like the mountains: they give no echo
if we get too near.
HADDA PADDA [lets herself slide down at Ingolf's knees, so that he
sits bending over her]. Let me look at you for a long time.--How
long your eyelashes are! Each time you blink, it is as though
invisible petals were sprinkled upon me.
INGOLF [closing her hands in his]. Now you have no hands. ...
Shall I give them to you again? [Lets go, but looks at her one
hand lying in his.] Your nails have a tinge like that of ice in
sunshine.
HADDA PADDA [withdraws her hand, laughing, and gets up]. I am just
thinking ...
INGOLF. What are you thinking?
HADDA PADDA [walks a few steps and stops behind him]. I was lying
down outside in the garden to-day. I could not keep awake. I
dreamed I stood outside the Cathedral. It was dark inside, but all
along the church floor, on either side, was a straight row of
unlit candles. I remember all the white soft wicks, peeping half
out, waiting for light. Then a sudden gust of wind swept through
the whole church, and as it grazed the wicks, all the candles were
lighted.
INGOLF [keeps silent].
HADDA PADDA. What do you think the dream means? I think it means
happiness.
INGOLF. You must not deprive your dream of its beauty by
interpreting it.
HADDA PADDA. Happiness comes to us like a beautiful dream that we
don't dare to interpret.
INGOLF. You have promised to trust me as much as you love me.
HADDA PADDA. I see the future mirrored in those days we lived
together.
INGOLF. I love you, Hadda Padda.
HADDA PADDA. Your words are the light, your caresses are the
warmth. Give me both, Ingolf. Kiss me.
INGOLF [kisses her].
HADDA PADDA. And I should not trust you? Has not a sacred hour
welded our hearts together? And have you not placed your life in
my hands?--Do you remember last summer, when I visited your home,
how you lowered me with a rope down the Angelica Gorge? I have not
often lived so exquisite an hour. Then I became quite foolhardy.
When I came up again, I asked you to go down and let me hold the
rope for you.
INGOLF. I hardly believed you were as strong as you are.
HADDA PADDA. If you had not had courage to go down by my hands, I
am not quite sure that I could be so fond of you. I shall never
forget that moment. I saw you come up again with an angelica crown
on your head. I saw you rise up like a green-crowned sea-god from
the deep.--
INGOLF. I can't bear the thought that I shall leave you in a few
days.
HADDA PADDA [smiles].
INGOLF. You smile?
HADDA PADDA. I am thinking of something. Shall I tell you?
LITTLE SKULI [comes rushing in from the right]. Hadda Padda! Have
you seen--? Ah, Ingolf, are you here? [Runs straight up to Ingolf,
catching hold of both his hands]. Why did you leave home so soon,
Ingolf?
INGOLF. Because I wanted to go to Copenhagen.
HADDA PADDA. Skuli dear, will you be a good boy and make me a
ship?
LITTLE SKULI. Oh no, not now.
HADDA PADDA. Oh yes, your last ship was so well cut out, with
great big masts. [Pats him.] You're a dear.
INGOLF. Then you'll be allowed to come along with us to the
country next summer.
HADDA PADDA. And sit in front, on the Sheriff's horse, many, many
times.
LITTLE SKULI. Then will the Sheriff give me a sheep again?
INGOLF. Yes, my little friend, father will give you a sheep, and I
will give you one too; I'll give you one with pretty rounded
horns.
LITTLE SKULI. Does it butt?
INGOLF. O, of course not, it eats bread from your hand.
LITTLE SKULI. Then I'll saw its horns off, and give them to Sigga-
-she has lots of horns she plays sheep with. [Laughter.]
INGOLF. Well, are you going to make that ship?
LITTLE SKULI. Are you the one who gets all Hadda Padda's ships?
INGOLF. Well, I daresay I get most of them.--What makes you think
so?
LITTLE SKULI. Because, whenever she is with you, she always wants
me to make ships. [Ingolf and Hadda look at each other and laugh.]
INGOLF. Yes, she knows I am very fond of your ships.
LITTLE SKULI. Then I'll make ships for you often. [Runs out,
Ingolf and Hadda still laughing.]
INGOLF. What was it you were going to tell me before?
HADDA PADDA. Something that ...
INGOLF. That ..?
HADDA PADDA. That ...
INGOLF. Are you teasing me?
RANNVEIG [enters from the back, knitting, sits down]. What a
lovely day it is.
HADDA PADDA. Veiga, dear, you promised to darn my lilac stockings
for me. I haven't any to wear to-morrow.
RANNVEIG [considering]. How about the yellow ones?
HADDA PADDA. Oh, Runa must have taken them; I couldn't find them.
RANNVEIG [gets up]. Well, I can't let you go barefooted. [Goes
out.]
INGOLF. You are shrewd, Hadda Padda!--Now, tell it to me.
HADDA PADDA. First, kiss me!
INGOLF [kisses her].
HADDA PADDA. Do you think you will miss me very much when you are
gone?
INGOLF. How can you ask?
RANNVEIG [enters from the back, with the stockings in her hand]. I
knew as much. I was right.--[Sees them embracing.]--I might have
saved myself the trouble of looking for the stockings. [Turns
round, and goes out.]
HADDA PADDA. Ingolf!
INGOLF. Yes--
HADDA PADDA. Now listen:--
THE JUDGE [enters from the back].
INGOLF [looks impatiently at his watch, and walks toward the door
on the right.]