Produced by Nicole Apostola, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
HADDA PADDA
By 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.]
THE JUDGE. Are you going out, Ingolf?
INGOLF. I'm just going up to my room. I have a letter to answer. [Goes
out.]
THE JUDGE. Well, my dear, to-morrow is the great day. HADDA PADDA. How
good you are, father, to make me feel your gladness as you do.
THE JUDGE [takes her to his side, and sits down with her]. You happy
child! I can't believe that you are grown up. It is as if I were
beginning to realise it now, for the first time. But still, I shall have
you one year more.
HADDA PADDA. Father!
THE JUDGE. Yes, dear.
HADDA PADDA. Father....!
THE JUDGE. What is the matter, dear?
HADDA PADDA. There is something I want to ask you.
THE JUDGE. And that is?
HADDA PADDA. I want to ask you--[Stops abruptly.]
LADY ANNA [enters from the back].
THE JUDGE [to Hadda]. What did you want to ask me? [Smiles to his wife.]
Something mother may not hear?
HADDA PADDA. No, something I have to ask both of you.
THE JUDGE. Let us hear it, then.
HADDA PADDA. It is a very great favor, but you must not say no.
THE JUDGE. Ask it.
LADY ANNA. Well, what is it? [She has taken some work from the basket,
and sits down to sew.]
HADDA PADDA. I want you to let me go to Copenhagen again. I want to go
with Ingolf.
THE JUDGE. Now?
HADDA PADDA. Yes, now, Tuesday.
LADY ANNA. You are not in earnest, Hrafnhild. You know, Kristrun is
going to leave for England next month, your brother has written for her.
And she hasn't been abroad yet, while you have been twice.
HADDA PADDA. Nor do I want her to abandon her plan.
LADY ANNA. But do you want me to do without both of you at the same
time?
HADDA PADDA. Would that be hard for you, mother?
LADY ANNA. Hard--it would be impossible. With all the parties we have, I
must have one of you at home.
THE JUDGE. Of course, it would be difficult for mother to manage without
your assistance--since Kristrun is going away.
LADY ANNA. I never thought of that, Hrafnhild. Besides, I think it in
good taste, since your engagement will be announced to-morrow before
Ingolf leaves, for you to remain at home this year till he has passed
his examination and comes back.
HADDA PADDA. Yes, that would be in very good taste, if I could only bear
it.
LADY ANNA. You must also remember that you would disturb him in his
studies, if you were with him this winter.... Just when he wants to
concentrate on his work.
HADDA PADDA. I want to make his work easier--that's just what I want to
do.
LADY ANNA. I can't do without you, Hadda.
THE JUDGE [pats his wife on the cheek]. If our dear little Hadda Padda
were sick, we would have to get one girl more in the house. And then, if
she had to go away for a year to recover, and we were waiting for her to
come back strong and healthy--don't you think we would readily allow her
to go?
HADDA PADDA [throws her arms around his neck]. Father, I was sure that
you...
LADY ANNA. That would be quite another thing.
THE JUDGE. Then you would realise that you COULD do without her.
LADY ANNA. But you don't mean, that any one else can fill her place--
HADDA PADDA. Mother, you think so much of Helga. I have talked to her,
and she is willing to help you.
THE JUDGE. There you are! Can you imagine any one better?
LADY ANNA. It is not only that--If they were married, it would be quite
proper for them to go abroad together.
HADDA PADDA [looks angrily at her mother, but says nothing].
THE JUDGE [discovers it. Walks up to his wife, and lays his arm on her
shoulder]. We have not grown so old as you would have us. [_Heartily._]
Perhaps then, it is not proper for an old venerable judge to be as much
in love with his silver-haired wife as when they were engaged. But he
can't help it, and that's just the reason, he still understands love
in young people. [_To Hadda._] Ask your mother once more to let you go.
Maybe she will when she knows you have my consent.
LADY ANNA. Well, I see what this is leading to. You know I don't usually
oppose you.
HADDA PADDA. Father, you're always so good to me. [_Kisses him._]
THE JUDGE [_in a whisper to Hadda_]. Now kiss your mother too!
HADDA PADDA. Nice mother! I will be twice as much pleasure to you when I
come back. [_Kisses her._]
LITTLE SKULI [_enters_]. Hadda Padda, do you want the ship to have two
or three masts?
HADDA PADDA. Now let me see, my boy. [_Goes out with him._]
THE JUDGE. To-morrow--that will be a happy day. At last I shall see my
fondest wish fulfilled, mine and my dear old friend's--that our children
should belong to each other. I never suspected this would happen when
Hrafnhild went abroad last year.
LADY ANNA. And now she is to go with him again. She has much to thank
her father for.
THE JUDGE. I think time has kept them apart long enough.--I had a long
talk with Helga the other day--they are very good friends, you know, and
she was in Copenhagen at the same time as Hadda last year. She told me
that Ingolf had quite given up his studies, and it was Hadda Padda who
made him take them up again.... From Christmas on, last year, he studied
from morning to night,--and now he will pass his examination, and begin
here as an attorney. Then they will probably marry next autumn.
LADY ANNA [_nods_]. He must be kind to Hrafnhild--she is more than just
fond of him. Have you noticed that she is beginning to resemble him?
THE JUDGE. Now, in spite of everything, I think we are beginning to grow
old; our sight is failing us.
LADY ANNA. Not my sight. Listen to me. You should have seen her with
the flowers this summer while she was home. When she watered them,
she talked with them as if they could understand her. It was as if she
returned every rise of fragrance with a smile. And the flowers thrived
and blossomed, as if they absorbed her tenderness.
THE JUDGE. I have noticed something else lately: that every time she
comes into a room it is as though the air were filled with the beauty
of peace. I could have myself blindfolded, and all Reykavik could walk
through the room on soles of velvet--when SHE entered I could recognize
her by the delightful calm that accompanies her.
LADY ANNA. This excessive love... it is worrying me. Maybe it was mostly
on that account that I delayed agreeing to her departure.
THE JUDGE. There are so many things that worry you. Why doesn't Ingolf
come back? [Kisses her on the cheek.] I will talk to him about it. [Goes
out.]
RANNVEIG [enters]. The servants want to know how many places to lay for
dinner.
LADY ANNA [putting aside her needlework]. Well, I'm coming--[Goes out.]
RANNVEIG [walks slowly to the centre of the room, stands looking at the
terra cotta statue]. When you dream something, you don't want to come
true, you ought to tell it to some one--better to a stone than to no
one. [Hands folded, she walks slowly up to the statue, whispering in its
ear,] I dreamed of a beautiful and marvellous diamond palace. I walked
around it, but it had no doors. No one could get in. If any one were
inside, he could not get out. I heard weeping inside the palace. It
seemed to tear my heart. I recognised the weeping?--[She passes her
hand over her eyes, looks at the statue a long time, walks away from it,
looks back at it once more, and goes out. In the doorway she encounters
Hadda, looks at her, pats her cheek, and disappears.]
HADDA PADDA [enters with a water jug in her hand, walks up to a flower
in the window].
INGOLF [enters and steals up to her].
INGOLF. Now I know the secret. You are going with me to Copenhagen.
Hadda Padda, Hadda Padda, I love you! Let me sing to you. [He takes both
her hands and while he sings, wild with joy, she hums the tune.]
You shall stand upon my skis,
In a mad precipitation
We, together, cleave the breeze:
We will,
My daffodil!
To the place where we'll abide
On my white horse you'll be riding:
Clouds of dust the moon will hide--
They will,
My daffodil!
[He lifts her in his arms. The sun is shining through the window and
lights up the room.]
HADDA PADDA [stretches her arms toward the light]. It is as though I had
wings. [Turns round in his arms, and folds him in her embrace.] I will
fly to my happiness.
CURTAIN