Kristin Lavransdatter

by Sigrid Undset

  Kristin sat alone in the high seat, weeping and weeping. When Erlend touched her, she angrily struck his hand aside. She swayed a few times as she walked across the floor, but she replied with a curt “no” when her husband asked if she was ill.

  She detested these closed beds. Back home they simply had tapestries hung up facing the room, and thus it was never hot or stuffy. But now it was worse than ever . . . it was so hard for her to breathe. She thought that the hard lump pressing on her all the way up under her ribcage must be the child’s head; she imagined him lying with his little black head burrowed in amongst the roots of her heart. He was suffocating her, as Erlend had done before when he pressed his dark-haired head to her breast. But tonight there was no sweetness in the thought.

  “Will you never stop your crying?” asked her husband, trying to ease his arm under her shoulder.

  He was quite sober. He could tolerate a great deal of liquor, but he usually drank very little. Kristin thought that never in all eternity would this have happened back at her home—never had she heard people fling slanderous words at each other or rip open something that would be better left unsaid. As many times as she had seen her father reeling from intoxication and the hall full of drunken guests, there was never a time when he couldn’t keep order in his own house. Peace and good will reigned right up until everyone tumbled off the benches and fell asleep in joy and harmony.

  “My dearest wife, don’t take this so hard,” implored Erlend.

  “And Sir Baard!” she burst into tears. “Shame on such behavior—this man who spoke to my father as if he were bearing God’s message. Yes, Munan told me about it at our betrothal banquet.”

  Erlend said softly, “I know, Kristin, that I have reason to cast down my eyes before your father. He’s a fine man—but my foster father is no worse. Inga, the mother of Paal and Vilborg, lay paralyzed and ill for six years before she died. That was before I came to Hestnes, but I’ve heard about it. Never has a husband tended to an ailing wife in a more faithful or loving manner. But it was during that time that Ulf was born.”

  “Then it was an even greater sin—with his sick wife’s maid.”

  “You often act so childish that it’s impossible to talk to you,” said Erlend in resignation. “God help me, Kristin, you’re going to be twenty this spring—and several winters have passed since you had to be considered a grown-up woman.”

  “Yes, it’s true that you have the right to scoff at me for that.”

  Erlend moaned loudly.

  “You know yourself that I didn’t mean it like that. But you lived all that time at Jørundgaard and listened to Lavrans—so splendid and manly he is, but he often talks as if he were a monk and not a grown man.”

  “Have you ever heard of any monk who has had six children?” she said, offended.

  “I’ve heard of that man, Skurda-Grim, and he had seven,” said Erlend in despair. “The former abbot at Holm . . . No, Kristin, Kristin, don’t cry like that. In God’s name, I think you’ve lost your senses.”

  Munan was quite subdued the next morning. “I didn’t think you would take my ale-babble so much to heart, young Kristin,” he said somberly, stroking her cheek. “Or I would have kept better watch on my tongue.”

  He said to Erlend that it must be strange for Kristin with the boy being there. It would be best to send Orm away for the time being. Munan offered to take him in for a while. Erlend approved, and Orm wanted to go with Munan. But Kristin missed the child deeply; she had grown fond of her stepson.

  Now she once again sat alone with Erlend in the evenings, and there was not much companionship in him. He would sit over by the hearth, say a few words now and then, take a drink from the ale bowl, and play with his dogs. He would go over to the bench and stretch out—and then he would go to bed, asking a couple of times whether she was coming soon, and then he’d fall asleep.

  Kristin sat and sewed. Her breathing was audible, shallow and heavy. But it wouldn’t be long now. She couldn’t even remember how it felt to be light and slim in the waist—or how to tie her shoes without strain and effort.

  Now that Erlend was asleep she no longer tried to hold back her tears. There was not a sound in the hall except the firewood collapsing in the hearth and the dogs stirring. Sometimes she wondered what they had talked about before, she and Erlend. But then they hadn’t talked much—they had had other things to do in those brief, stolen hours together.

  At this time of year her mother and the maids used to sit in the weaving room in the evenings. Then her father and the men would come to join them and sit down with their work—they would repair leather goods and farm tools and make carvings out of wood. The little room would be crowded with people; conversation flowed quietly and easily among them. Whenever somebody went over to drink from the ale keg, before he hung up the ladle he would always ask whether anyone else would like some—that was the custom.

  Then someone would recite a short saga—perhaps about giants in the past who had fought with grave-barrow ghosts and giantesses. Or her father, as he whittled, would recount those tales of knights that he had heard read aloud in Duke Haakon’s hall when he was a page in his youth. Strange and beautiful names: King Os antrix, Titurel the knight; Sisibe, Guinevere, Gloriana, and Isolde were the names of the queens. But on other evenings they told bawdy tales and ribald sagas until the men were roaring with laughter and her mother and the maids would shake their heads and giggle.

  Ulvhild and Astrid would sing. Ragnfrid had the loveliest voice of all, but they had to plead before they could get her to sing. Lavrans didn’t need such persuasion—and he could play his harp so beautifully.

  Then Ulvhild would put down her distaff and spindle and press her hands behind her hips.

  “Is your back tired now, little Ulvhild?” asked her father, taking her onto his lap. Someone would bring a board game and Ulvhild and her father would move the markers around until it was time for bed. Kristin remembered her little sister’s golden locks flowing over her father’s brownish-green homespun sleeve. He held the weak little back so tenderly.

  Her father’s big, slender hands with a heavy gold ring on each little finger . . . They had both belonged to his mother. He had said that the one with the red stone, her wedding ring, Kristin would inherit from him. But the one that he wore on his right hand, with a stone that was half blue and half white, like the emblem on his shield—that one Sir Bjørgulf had ordered made for his wife when she was with child, and it was to be given to her when she had borne him a son. For three nights Kristin Sigurdsdatter had worn the ring; then she tied it around the boy’s neck, and Lavrans said that he would wear it to his grave.

  Oh, what would her father say when he heard the news about her? When it spread throughout the villages back home, and he had to realize that wherever he went, to church or to the ting1 or to a meeting, every man would be laughing behind his back because he had allowed himself to be fooled? At Jørundgaard they had adorned a wanton woman with the Sundbu crown on her flowing hair.

  “People are no doubt saying of me that I can’t keep my children in check.” She remembered her father’s face whenever he said that; he meant to be stern and somber, but his eyes were merry. She had misbehaved in some small way—spoken to him uninvited while guests were present or some such. “And you, Kristin, you don’t have much fear of your father, do you?” Then he would laugh, and she laughed along with him. “Yes, but that’s not right, Kristin.” And neither of them knew what was not right—that she didn’t have the proper terror of her father, or that it was impossible for him to remain serious when he had to scold her.

  It was as if the unbearable fear that something would be wrong with her child diminished and faded away the more trouble and torment Kristin had from her body. She tried to think ahead—to a month from now; by then her son would have already been born. But it didn’t seem real to her. She simply yearned more and more for home.

  Once Erlend asked Kristin if she wanted him to send for her mothe
r. But she told him no—she didn’t think her mother could stand to travel so far in the winter. Now she regretted this. And she regretted that she had said no to Tordis of Laugarbru, who had been so willing to accompany her north and lend a hand during the first winter she was to be mistress. But she felt ashamed before Tordis. Tordis had been Ragnfrid’s maid at home at Sundbu and had accompanied her to Skog and then back to the valley. When Tordis married, Lavrans had made her husband a foreman at Jørundgaard because Ragnfrid couldn’t bear to be without her beloved maid. Kristin had not wanted to bring along any of the maids from home.

  Now it seemed to her terrible that she would have no familiar face above her when her time came to kneel on the floor.2 She was frightened—she knew so little about what went on at childbirth. Her mother had never spoken to her of it and had never wanted young maidens to be present when she helped a woman give birth. It would only frighten the young, she said. It could certainly be dreadful; Kristin remembered when her mother had Ulvhild. But Ragnfrid said it was because she had inadvertently crawled under a fence—she had given birth to her other children with ease. But Kristin remembered that she herself had been thoughtless and had walked under a rope on board ship.

  But that didn’t always cause harm—she had heard her mother and other women speak of such things. Ragnfrid had a reputation back home in the village for being the best midwife, and she never refused to go and help, no matter if it was a beggar or the poorest man’s seduced daughter, or if the weather was such that three men had to accompany her on skis and take turns carrying her on their backs.

  But it was completely unthinkable that an experienced woman like her mother hadn’t realized what was wrong with her this past summer, when she was feeling so wretched. It suddenly occurred to Kristin: but then . . . then it was certain that her mother would come, even though they hadn’t sent for her! Ragnfrid would never stand for a stranger helping her daughter through the struggle. Her mother was coming—she was probably on her way north right now. Oh, then she could ask for her mother’s forgiveness for all the pain she had caused her. Her own mother would support her, she would kneel at her own mother’s knees when she gave birth to her child. Mother is coming, Mother is coming. Kristin sobbed with relief, covering her face with her hands. Yes, Mother; forgive me, Mother.

  This thought, that her mother was on her way to be with her, became so entrenched in Kristin’s mind that one day she thought she could sense that her mother would arrive that very day. In the early morning she put on her cloak and went out to meet her on the road which leads from Gauldal to Skaun. No one noticed her leave the estate.

  Erlend had ordered timber to be brought for the improvement of the buildings, so the road was good, but walking was still difficult for her. She was short of breath, her heart pounded, and she had a pain in both sides—it felt as if the taut skin would burst apart after she had walked a short while. And most of the road passed through dense forest. She was afraid, but there had been no word of wolves in the area that winter. And God would protect her, since she was on her way to meet her mother, to fall down before her and beg forgiveness—and she could not stop walking.

  She reached a small lake where there were several farms. At the spot where the road led out onto the ice, she sat down on a log. She sat there for a while, walked a little farther when she began to freeze, and waited for many hours. But at last she had to turn back and head for home.

  The next day she wandered along the same road. But when she crossed the courtyard of one of the small farms near the lake, the farmer’s wife came running after her.

  “In God’s name, mistress, you mustn’t do that!”

  When the other woman spoke, Kristin grew so frightened herself that she didn’t dare move. Trembling, her eyes wide with fear, she stared at the farmer’s wife.

  “Through the woods—just think if a wolf caught your scent. Other terrible things could happen to you, too. How can you do something so foolish?”

  The farmer’s wife put her arm around the young mistress and supported her; she looked into Kristin’s gaunt face with the yellowish, brown-flecked skin.

  “You must come into our house and rest for a while. Then someone from here will escort you home,” said the farmer’s wife as she led Kristin indoors.

  It was a cramped and impoverished house, and there was great disarray inside; many little children were playing on the floor. Their mother sent them out to the cookhouse, took her guest’s cloak, seated her on a bench, and pulled off her snowy shoes. Then she wrapped a fur around Kristin’s feet.

  No matter how much Kristin begged the woman not to trouble herself, the farmer’s wife continued to dish up food and ale from the Christmas cask. All the while the woman thought: So that’s how things are at Husaby! She was a poor man’s wife; they had little help on the farm, and usually none at all; but Øistein had never allowed her to walk alone outside the courtyard fence when she was with child—yes, even if she was just going out to the cowshed after dark, someone would have to keep watch for her. But the richest mistress in the parish could go out and risk the most hideous death, and not a Christian soul was looking out for her—even though the servants were falling over each other at Husaby and did no work. It must be true then what people said, that Erlend Nikulaussøn was already tired of his marriage and cared nothing for his wife.

  But she chatted with Kristin the whole time and urged her to eat and drink. And Kristin was thoroughly ashamed, but she had a craving for food such as she had not felt before—not since the spring. This kind woman’s food tasted so good. And the woman laughed and said that the gentry’s women probably were created no different from other people. If a woman couldn’t stand to look at food at home, someone else’s food could often make her almost greedy, even if it was poor and coarse fare.

  Her name was Audfinna Andunsdatter, and she was from Updal, she said. When she noticed that it put her guest at ease, she began to talk about her home and her village. And before Kristin knew it, her own tongue was loosened, and she was talking about her own home and her parents and her village. Audfinna could see that the young woman’s heart was almost bursting with homesickness, so she stealthily prodded Kristin to keep talking. Hot and giddy from the ale, Kristin talked until she was laughing and crying at the same time. All that she had futilely tried to sob out of her heart during the lonely evening hours at Husaby, now was gradually released as she spoke to this kind farmer’s wife.

  It was quite dark above the smoke vent, but Audfinna wanted ristin to wait for Øistein or her sons to return from the woods so they could accompany her. Kristin fell silent and grew drowsy, but she sat there smiling, her eyes shining—she hadn’t felt this way since she had to come to Husaby.

  Then a man tore open the door, shouting: Had they seen any sign of the mistress? Then he noticed her and went back outside. A moment later Erlend’s tall figure ducked through the doorway. He set down the axe he was carrying and leaned back against the wall. He had to put his hands behind him to support himself, and he could not speak.

  “You have feared for your wife?” asked Audfinna, going over to him.

  “Yes, I’m not ashamed to admit it.” Erlend pushed back his hair. “No man has ever been as frightened as I was tonight. When I heard that she had gone through the woods . . .”

  Audfinna told him how Kristin had happened to come there. Erlend took the woman’s hand.

  “I will never forget this—either you or your husband,” he said.

  Then he went over to where his wife was sitting, stood next to her, and placed his hand on the back of her neck. He didn’t say a word to her, but he stood there like that for as long as they remained in the house.

  Now they all came inside, the servants from Husaby and men from the nearest farms. Everyone looked as if they could use something fortifying to drink, so Audfinna served ale all around before they left.

  The men set off on skis across the fields, but Erlend had given his to a servant; he walked along, holding Kris
tin under his cape, and headed down the slope. It was quite dark now, but a starry night.

  Then they heard it from the forest behind them—a long, drawn-out howl that grew and grew in the night. It was the howl of the wolf—and there were several of them. Shivering, Erlend stopped and let Kristin go. She sensed that he crossed himself while he gripped the axe in his other hand. “If you were now . . . oh, no!” He pulled her to him so hard that she whimpered.

  The skiers out in the field turned around and made their way back toward the two as fast as they could. They slung the skis over their shoulders and closed around her in a tight group with spears and axes. The wolves followed them all the way to Husaby—so close that once or twice they caught a glimpse of the beasts in the dark.

  When the men entered the hall at home, many of them were gray or white in the face. “That was the most horrifying . . .” said one man, and he at once threw up into the hearth. The frightened maids put their mistress to bed. She could eat nothing. But now that the terrible, sickening fear was over, in an odd way she thought it was good to see that everyone had been so scared on her behalf.

  When they were alone in the hall, Erlend came over and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Why did you do that?” he whispered. And when she didn’t reply, he said even more softly, “Do you so regret that you came to my manor?”

  It took a moment before she realized what he meant.

  “Jesus, Maria! How can you think something like that!”

  “What did you mean that time when you said—when we were at Medalby, and I was going to ride away from you—that I would have had to wait a good long time before you followed me to Husaby?” he asked in the same tone of voice.

  “Oh, I spoke in anger,” said Kristin quietly, embarrassed. And now she told him why she had gone out these past few days. Erlend sat quite still and listened to her.