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.
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