Where is hedda gabler from

Ibsen published A Doll's House in and Ghosts in ; both scathing commentaries on Victorian morality. These plays are particularly interesting because of their hard-edged, objective look at interpersonal confrontation. Ibsen can be credited with completely rewriting the rules of drama with a realism which was to be adopted by Chekhov and others and which we see in the theatre to this day.

He returned to Norway in and died in Christiania now Oslo after a series of strokes in Michael Meyer is recognised internationally as the principal English-language authority on Ibsen. His work appeared in the New York Review of Books. A playwright himself, his translations of many Ibsen's plays as well as Strindberg's are universally acclaimed. While he wrote acclaimed biographies of both these playwrights; it was the volume on Ibsen which is generally regarded as definitive - it won the Whitbread Award for Biography.

His autobiography 'Not Prince Hamlet' was published in First published in , Hedda Gabler is probably Ibsen's most performed play, with the title role regarded as one of the most challenging and rewarding for an actress. The action takes place in a villa in Christiania now known as Oslo , Norway. Hedda Gabler, daughter of an aristocratic General, has just returned from her honeymoon with George Tesman, an aspiring but reliable young academic.

Desperately unromantic, he has combined research with their honeymoon and it becomes clear in the course of the play that she has never loved him but has married him because of the tediousness of her life. The character of Hedda is considered by some critics as one of the great dramatic roles in theatre; the "female Hamlet".

Depending on the interpretation, Hedda may be portrayed as an idealistic heroine fighting society, a victim of circumstance, a prototypical feminist, or a manipulative villain.

Her almost demonic energy proves both attractive and destructive for those around her. The play premiered in in Germany to negative reviews, but has subsequently gained recognition as a classic of realism, 19th century theatre and world drama. The play has been adapted for screen a number of times, from the silent film era of the early s to the present day in several languages.

His work had already passed through two clearly marked phases. The first major plays had drawn on Norwegian folk-myth, characterising the struggles of life through the inner demons and spirits which posses us; the troll world of 'Peer Gynt' Tesman recovers it, but, in a fit of jealousy, Hedda burns it.

In Hedda Gabler , the two pistols are mentioned at the end of the first act and appear for the first time at the beginning of the second. They are indeed fired by the end of the play, but Ibsen puts them to rather different use than would a typical author of well-made plays like Scribe.

The first mention of a pistol occurs in the first act, when Mrs. At the end of the act, Hedda for the first time refers to her own pistols; this revelation confirms what the audience but not Mrs. A young Danish man of letters, whom Dr. Brandes calls Holm, was an enthusiastic admirer of Ibsen, and came to be on very friendly terms with him. One day Ibsen was astonished to receive, in Munich, a parcel addressed from Berlin by this young man, containing, without a word of explanation, a packet of his Ibsen's letters, and a photograph which he had presented to Holm.

Ibsen brooded and brooded over the incident, and at last came to the conclusion that the young man had intended to return her letters and photograph to a young lady to whom he was known to be attached, and had in a fit of aberration mixed up the two objects of his worship. Some time after, Holm appeared at Ibsen's rooms. He talked quite rationally, but professed to have no knowledge whatever of the letter-incident, though he admitted the truth of Ibsen's conjecture that the "belle dame sans merci" had demanded the return of her letters and portrait.

Ibsen was determined to get at the root of the mystery; and a little inquiry into his young friend's habits revealed the fact that he broke his fast on a bottle of port wine, consumed a bottle of Rhine wine at lunch, of Burgundy at dinner, and finished off the evening with one or two more bottles of port.

Then he heard, too, how, in the course of a night's carouse, Holm had lost the manuscript of a book; and in these traits he saw the outline of the figure of Eilert Lovborg.

Some time elapsed, and again Ibsen received a postal packet from Holm. This one contained his will, in which Ibsen figured as his residuary legatee.

But many other legatees were mentioned in the instrument—all of them ladies, such as Fraulein Alma Rothbart, of Bremen, and Fraulein Elise Kraushaar, of Berlin. The bequests to these meritorious spinsters were so generous that their sum considerably exceeded the amount of the testator's property. Ibsen gently but firmly declined the proffered inheritance; but Holm's will no doubt suggested to him the figure of that red-haired "Mademoiselle Diana," who is heard of but not seen in Hedda Gabler , and enabled him to add some further traits to the portraiture of Lovborg.

When the play appeared, Holm recognised himself with glee in the character of the bibulous man of letters, and thereafter adopted "Eilert Lovborg" as his pseudonym. I do not, therefore, see why Dr. Brandes should suppress his real name; but I willingly imitate him in erring on the side of discretion. The poor fellow died several years ago. Some critics have been greatly troubled as to the precise meaning of Hedda's fantastic vision of Lovborg "with vine-leaves in his hair.

Antique art, or I am much mistaken, shows us many figures of Dionysus himself and his followers with vine-leaves entwined their hair. To Ibsen's mind, at any rate, the image had long been familiar. In Peer Gynt Act iv. Act 1 where Julian, in the procession of Dionysus, impersonates the god himself, it is directed that he shall wear a wreath of vine-leaves.

Professor Dietrichson relates that among the young artists whose society Ibsen frequented during his first years in Rome, it was customary, at their little festivals, for the revellers to deck themselves in this fashion. But the image is so obvious that there is no need to trace it to any personal experience.

The attempt to place Hedda's vine-leaves among Ibsen's obscurities is an example of the firm resolution not to understand which animated the criticism of the 'nineties. Brandes has dealt very severely with the character of Eilert Lovborg, alleging that we cannot believe in the genius attributed to him. But where is he described as a genius? The poet represents him as a very able student of sociology; but that is quite a different thing from attributing to him such genius as must necessarily shine forth in every word he utters.

Brandes, indeed, declines to believe even in his ability as a sociologist, on the ground that it is idle to write about the social development of the future. Good heavens, we know nothing of the future. Wells has shown is not only clearly distinguishable from fantastic Utopianism, but is indispensable to any large statesmanship or enlightened social activity. With very real and very great respect for Dr. Brandes, I cannot think that he has been fortunate in his treatment of Lovborg's character.

It has been represented as an absurdity that he would think of reading abstracts from his new book to a man like Tesman, whom he despises. But though Tesman is a ninny, he is, as Hedda says, a "specialist"—he is a competent, plodding student of his subject. Lovborg may quite naturally wish to see how his new method, or his excursion into a new field, strikes the average scholar of the Tesman type. He is, in fact, "trying it on the dog"—neither an unreasonable nor an unusual proceeding.

There is, no doubt, a certain improbability in the way in which Lovborg is represented as carrying his manuscript around, and especially in Mrs.

Elvsted's production of his rough draft from her pocket; but these are mechanical trifles, on which only a niggling criticism would dream of laying stress.

Of all Ibsen's works, Hedda Gabler is the most detached, the most objective—a character-study pure and simple. It is impossible—or so it seems to me—to extract any sort of general idea from it. One cannot even call it a satire, unless one is prepared to apply that term to the record of a "case" in a work of criminology.

Reverting to Dumas's dictum that a play should contain "a painting, a judgment, an ideal," we may say the Hedda Gabler fulfils only the first of these requirements. The poet does not even pass judgment on his heroine: he simply paints her full-length portrait with scientific impassivity.

But what a portrait! How searching in insight, how brilliant in colouring, how rich in detail! Grant Allen's remark, above quoted, was, of course, a whimsical exaggeration; the Hedda type is not so common as all that, else the world would quickly come to an end.

But particular traits and tendencies of the Hedda type are very common in modern life, and not only among women. Hyperaesthesia lies at the root of her tragedy. With a keenly critical, relentlessly solvent intelligence, she combines a morbid shrinking from all the gross and prosaic detail of the sensual life. She has nothing to take her out of herself—not a single intellectual interest or moral enthusiasm.

She cherishes, in a languid way, a petty social ambition; and even that she finds obstructed and baffled. At the same time she learns that another woman has had the courage to love and venture all, where she, in her cowardice, only hankered and refrained.

Her malign egoism rises up uncontrolled, and calls to its aid her quick and subtle intellect. She ruins the other woman's happiness, but in doing so incurs a danger from which her sense of personal dignity revolts. Life has no such charm for her that she cares to purchase it at the cost of squalid humiliation and self-contempt. The good and the bad in her alike impel her to have done with it all; and a pistol-shot ends what is surely one of the most poignant character-tragedies in literature.

Ibsen's brain never worked at higher pressure than in the conception and adjustment of those "crowded hours" in which Hedda, tangled in the web of Will and Circumstance, struggles on till she is too weary to struggle any more. It may not be superfluous to note that the "a" in "Gabler" should be sounded long and full, like the "a" in "Garden"—NOT like the "a" in "gable" or in "gabble.

The inclusion or omission of commas between repeated words "well, well"; "there there", etc. Modern editions of the same translation use the commas consistently throughout. Remember how late the steamboat got in last night. And then, when they got home! Well well—let them have their sleep out. But let us see that they get a good breath of the fresh morning air when they do appear.

I think I'll put it down here, Miss. So you've got a new mistress now, my dear Berta. Heaven knows it was a wrench to me to part with you.

After all the blessed years I've been with you and Miss Rina. We must make the best of it, Berta. There was nothing else to be done.

George can't do without you, you see-he absolutely can't. He has had you to look after him ever since he was a little boy.

And with only that new girl too! She'll never learn to take proper care of an invalid. Oh, I shall manage to train her. And of course, you know, I shall take most of it upon myself. You needn't be uneasy about my poor sister, my dear Berta. Well, but there's another thing, Miss. I'm so mortally afraid I shan't be able to suit the young mistress. Well, you can't wonder at that—General Gabler's daughter!

Think of the sort of life she was accustomed to in her father's time. Don't you remember how we used to see her riding down the road along with the General?

In that long black habit—and with feathers in her hat? Yes, indeed—I remember well enough! Nor I. You must say Dr. Yes, the young mistress spoke of that too—last night—the moment they set foot in the house.

Is it true then, Miss? Yes, indeed it is. Only think, Berta—some foreign university has made him a doctor—while he has been abroad, you understand. I hadn't heard a word about it, until he told me himself upon the pier. Well well, he's clever enough for anything, he is.

But I didn't think he'd have gone in for doctoring people. No no, it's not that sort of doctor he is. Taken the chintz covers off all the furniture. Yes, that's what I understood—from the mistress.

Master George—the doctor—he said nothing. Dear Aunt Julia! Yes, quite safely, thank goodness. Judge Brack was good enough to see me right to my door. We were so sorry we couldn't give you a seat in the carriage. But you saw what a pile of boxes Hedda had to bring with her. No thank you, Berta—you needn't. She said she would ring if she wanted anything. Fancy, Auntie—I had the whole of that portmanteau chock full of copies of the documents.

You wouldn't believe how much I have picked up from all the archives I have been examining—curious old details that no one has had any idea of—. No, that I haven't. But do take off your bonnet, Auntie. Look here! Let me untie the strings—eh? My George—my poor brother's own boy! And it's a delight for me, too, to see you again, Aunt Julia! You, who have been father and mother in one to me. Oh, no—we can scarcely look for any improvement in her case, poor thing. There she lies, helpless, as she has lain for all these years.

But heaven grant I may not lose her yet awhile! For if I did, I don't know what I should make of my life, George—especially now that I haven't you to look after any more. Only think of it—she, that was so beset with admirers! And then this fine long wedding-tour you have had! More than five— nearly six months—. Well, for me it has been a sort of tour of research as well.

I have had to do so much grubbing among old records—and to read no end of books too, Auntie. Oh yes, I suppose so. No, I don't know of anything except what I have told you in my letters. I had a doctor's degree conferred on me—but that I told you yesterday. Yes, yes, you did. But what I mean is—haven't you any—any— expectations—? Indeed, I may say I am certain of it. But my dear Auntie—you know all about that already! You are quite right there. It must have cost a great deal of money, George?

And especially travelling with a lady—they tell me that makes it ever so much more expensive. Yes, of course—it makes it a little more expensive. But Hedda had to have this trip, Auntie! She really had to. Nothing else would have done. No no, I suppose not. A wedding-tour seems to be quite indispensable nowadays.

I'm delighted! Quite delighted! Only I can't think what we are to do with the two empty rooms between this inner parlour and Hedda's bedroom. Why of course you are quite right, Aunt Julia! You mean as my library increases—eh? I am specially pleased on Hedda's account. Often and often, before we were engaged, she said that she would never care to live anywhere but in Secretary Falk's villa. Yes, it was lucky that this very house should come into the market, just after you had started.

Well, fortunately, Judge Brack has secured the most favourable terms for me, so he said in a letter to Hedda. Yes, don't be uneasy, my dear boy. Your annuity—it's all that you and Aunt Rina have to live upon. Well well—don't get so excited about it. It's only a matter of form you know—Judge Brack assured me of that. It was he that was kind enough to arrange the whole affair for me. A mere matter of form, he said. You will have your own salary to depend upon now.

And, good heavens, even if we did have to pay up a little—! To eke things out a bit at the start—! Why, it would be nothing but a pleasure to us.

You, who have had neither father nor mother to depend on. And now we have reached the goal, George! Things have looked black enough for us, sometimes; but, thank heaven, now you have nothing to fear. And the people who opposed you—who wanted to bar the way for you— now you have them at your feet.

They have fallen, George. Your most dangerous rival—his fall was the worst. Yes, so they say. Heaven knows whether it can be worth anything! Ah, when your new book appears—that will be another story, George! What is it to be about?

However, it may be some time before the book is ready. I have all these collections to arrange first, you see. Yes, collecting and arranging—no one can beat you at that. There you are my poor brother's own son. I am looking forward eagerly to setting to work at it; especially now that I have my own delightful home to work in.

Hedda—she is the best part of it all! I believe I hear her coming—eh? Good morning, and a hearty welcome! So early a call! That is kind of you. Come, that's good, Hedda! You were sleeping like a stone when I got up.

Of course one has always to accustom one's self to new surroundings, Miss Tesman—little by little. Yes, fresh air we certainly must have, with all these stacks of flowers—. But—won't you sit down, Miss Tesman? No, thank you. Now that I have seen that everything is all right here—thank heaven! My sister is lying longing for me, poor thing. Give her my very best love, Auntie; and say I shall look in and see her later in the day.

Yes, yes, I'll be sure to tell her. But by-the-bye, George—[Feeling in her dress pocket]—I had almost forgotten—I have something for you here.

Oh you can't think how many associations cling to them. And, what's more, it's not old, Madam Hedda. Oh, it's no such great things, George. Ah, here. Yes, isn't it? But Auntie, take a good look at Hedda before you go! See how handsome she is! How she has filled out on the journey? Of course you don't notice it so much now that she has that dress on.

But I, who can see—. They are so yellow—so withered. Don't you think Aunt Julia's manner was strange, dear? Almost solemn? Can you imagine what was the matter with her? But what an idea, to pitch her bonnet about in the drawing-room! No one does that sort of thing. Yes, that I will. And there's one thing more you could do that would delight her heart. If you could only prevail on yourself to say du 3 to her. For my sake, Hedda? No, no, Tesman—you really mustn't ask that of me.

I have told you so already. I shall try to call her "Aunt"; and you must be satisfied with that. I'm only looking at my old piano. It doesn't go at all well with all the other things.

No, no—no exchanging. I don't want to part with it. Suppose we put it there in the inner room, and then get another here in its place. When it's convenient, I mean. The girl with the irritating hair, that she was always showing off. An old flame of yours I've been told. But fancy her being in town! It's odd that she should call upon us.

I have scarcely seen her since we left school. I haven't see her either for—heaven knows how long. I wonder how she can endure to live in such an out-of-the way hole—eh? That lady, ma'am, that brought some flowers a little while ago, is here again.

It's delightful to see you again. Oh, not at all—. I would have come straight here yesterday afternoon; but I heard that you were away—. I arrived yesterday, about midday. Oh, I was quite in despair when I heard that you were not at home.

Yes, yes—of course it is. Well then, I must tell you—if you don't already know—that Eilert Lovborg is in town, too. He has been here a week already.

Just fancy—a whole week! In this terrible town, alone! With so many temptations on all sides. Perfectly irreproachable, I assure you! In every respect. But all the same—now that I know he is here—in this great town—and with a large sum of money in his hands—I can't help being in mortal fear for him.

Yes, a big book, dealing with the march of civilisation—in broad outline, as it were. It came out about a fortnight ago. And since it has sold so well, and been so much read—and made such a sensation—.

No, not yet. I have had the greatest difficulty in finding out his address. But this morning I discovered it at last. That he should send you to town on such an errand—that he does not come himself and look after his friend. Oh no, no—my husband has no time. And besides, I—I had some shopping to do. Tesman—receive Eilert Lovborg kindly if he comes to you!

And that he is sure to do. You see you were such great friends in the old days. And then you are interested in the same studies—the same branch of science—so far as I can understand. That is why I beg so earnestly that you—you too—will keep a sharp eye upon him. Oh, you will promise me that, Mr. Tesman—won't you? Oh, how very, very kind of you! Perhaps he may not care to come to you of his own accord.

Good, good. Then I'll go in— [Looks about him. Oh, here. We have killed two birds with one stone. Oh yes, but there is. There is a great deal more—I can see that. Sit here—and we'll have a cosy, confidential chat. Tesman—I was really on the point of going. Oh, you can't be in such a hurry. Now tell me something about your life at home. Yes, but you were in the class above me. Oh, how dreadfully afraid of you I was then! Yes, but I was so silly in those days. Our circles have been so entirely different.

Well then, we must try to drift together again. Now listen. At school we said du 4 to each other; and we called each other by our Christian names—. No, not at all! I can remember quite distinctly. So now we are going to renew our old friendship. I am not used to such kindness. There, there, there! And I shall say du to you, as in the old days, and call you my dear Thora.

Why, of course! I meant Thea. Not in your own home? I don't quite remember—was it not as housekeeper that you first went to Mr. I really went as governess. But his wife—his late wife—was an invalid,—and rarely left her room.

So I had to look after the housekeeping as well. Oh those five years—! Or at all events the last two or three of them! Oh, if you 6 could only imagine—.

Yes, yes, I will try—. Well, if—you could only imagine and understand—. Yes, he came to us every day. You see, he gave the children lessons; for in the long run I couldn't manage it all myself. No, that's clear. I suppose he is often away from home?

What sort of a man is your husband, Thea? I mean—you know—in everyday life. Is he kind to you? I should think he must be altogether too old for you. There is at least twenty years' difference between you, is there not? Everything about him is repellent to me! We have not a thought in common. We have no single point of sympathy—he and I. Oh I really don't know. I think he regards me simply as a useful property. And then it doesn't cost much to keep me. I am not expensive. I don't think he really cares for any one but himself—and perhaps a little for the children.

Well, my dear—I should say, when he sends you after him all the way to town— [Smiling almost imperceptibly. Yes, I suppose I did. For it must all come out in any case. No, of course not. For that matter, he was away from home himself— he was travelling. Oh, I could bear it no longer, Hedda! I couldn't indeed—so utterly alone as I should have been in future.

So I put together some of my things—what I needed most—as quietly as possible. And then I left the house. They may say what they like, for aught I care. I don't know yet.

I only know this, that I must live here, where Eilert Lovborg is—if I am to live at all. He gave up his old habits. Not because I asked him to, for I never dared do that. But of course he saw how repulsive they were to me; and so he dropped them.

So he says himself, at any rate. And he, on his side, has made a real human being of me—taught me to think, and to understand so many things. No, not exactly lessons. But he talked to me—talked about such an infinity of things. And then came the lovely, happy time when I began to share in his work—when he allowed me to help him! Yes, fancy, Hedda—that is the very word he used! I don't know. Some one he knew in his—in his past.