Kristin Lavransdatter

by Sigrid Undset

  Lord Jesus Christ, Holy Mary, Saint Olav. She longed to reach the destination of her journey. She longed to cast off the burden of years of concealed sins, the weight of church services and masses which she had stolen, unconfessed and unredeemed. She longed to be absolved and free—just as she had longed to be released from her burden this past spring when she was carrying the child.

  He was sleeping soundly, safe on his mother’s back. He didn’t wake up until she had walked through the woods down to the farms of Snefugl and could look out across Budvik and the arm of the fjord at Saltnes. Kristin sat down in an outlying field, pulled the bundle with the child around into her lap, and loosened her robe at the breast. It felt good to hold him to her breast; it felt good to sit down; and a blessed warmth coursed through her whole body as she felt her stone-hard breasts bursting with milk empty out as he nursed.

  The countryside below her lay silent and baking in the sun, with green pastures and bright fields amidst dark forest. A little smoke drifted up from the rooftops here and there. The hay harvesting had begun in a few places.

  She traveled by boat from Saltnes Sand over to Steine. Then she was in completely unfamiliar regions. The road through Bynes went past farms for a while; then she reached the woods again, but there was no longer such a great distance between human dwellings. She was very tired. But then she thought about her parents—they had walked barefoot all the way from Jørundgaard at Sil, through Dovre, and on to Nidaros, carrying Ulvhild on a litter between them. She must not think that Naakkve was so heavy on her back.

  And yet her head itched terribly from the sweat under her thick homespun wimple. Around her waist, where the rope held her clothing close to her body, her shift had rubbed on her skin so that it felt quite raw.

  After a while there were others on the road. Now and then people would ride past her. She caught up with a farmer’s cart taking goods to town; the heavy wheels jolted and jounced over roots and stones, screeching and creaking. Two men were driving a beast to slaughter. They glanced at the young woman pilgrim because she was so beautiful; otherwise people were used to such wayfarers in these parts. At one place several men were building a house a short distance from the road; they shouted to her, and an old man came running to offer her some ale. Kristin curtseyed, took a drink, and thanked the man with such words as poor people usually said to her when she gave them alms.

  A little while later she had to rest again. She found a small green hill along the road with a trickling creek. Kristin placed the child on the grass; he woke up and cried loudly, so she hurried distractedly through the prayers she had meant to say. Then she picked up Naakkve, held him on her lap, and loosened the swaddling clothes. He had sullied his underclothes, and she had little to change him with; so she rinsed the cloths and spread them out to dry on a bare rock in the sun. She wrapped the outer garments loosely around the boy. He seemed to like this, and lay there kicking as he drank from his mother’s breast. Kristin gazed happily at his fine, rosy limbs and pressed one of his hands between her breasts as she nursed him.

  Two men rode past at a fast trot. Kristin glanced up briefly—it was a nobleman and his servant. But suddenly the man reined in his horse, leaped from the saddle, and walked back to where she was sitting. It was Simon Andressøn.

  “Perhaps you won’t be pleased that I stopped to greet you?” he asked. He stood there holding his horse and looking down at her. He was wearing traveling clothes, with a sleeveless leather vest over a light-blue linen tunic; he wore a small silk cap on his head, and his face was rather flushed and sweaty. “It’s strange to see you—but perhaps you’d rather not speak to me?”

  “Surely you should know . . . How are you, Simon?” Kristin tucked her bare feet under the hem of her skirts and tried to take the child from her breast. But the boy screamed, opening his mouth to suckle, so she had to let him nurse again. She pulled the robe over her breast as best she could and sat with her eyes lowered.

  “Is it yours?” asked Simon, pointing to the child. “That was a foolish question,” he laughed. “It’s a son, isn’t it? He’s blessed with good fortune, Erlend Nikulaussøn!” He tied his horse to a tree, and now he sat down on a rock not far from Kristin. He placed his sword between his knees and sat with his hands on the hilt, poking at the dirt with the point of the scabbard.

  “It was unexpected to meet you here in the north, Simon,” said Kristin, just for something to say.

  “Yes,” said Simon. “I haven’t had business in this part of the country before.”

  Kristin recalled that she had heard something—at the welcome celebration for her at Husaby—about the youngest son of Arne Gjavvaldssøn of Ranheim being betrothed to Andres Darre’s youngest daughter. So she asked him whether that’s where he had been.

  “You know about it?” asked Simon. “Well, I suppose it must have been talked about all through these parts.”

  “So it’s true,” said Kristin, “that Gjavvald is to marry Sigrid?” Simon looked up abruptly, pressing his lips together.

  “I see you don’t know everything, after all.”

  “I haven’t been beyond the courtyard of Husaby all winter,” said Kristin. “And I’ve seen few people. I heard there was talk of this marriage.”

  “You might as well hear it from my lips, then—the news will doubtless reach here soon enough.” He sat in silence for a moment. “Gjavvald died three days before Winter Night.1 He fell off his horse and broke his back. Do you remember before you reach Dyfrin how the road heads east of the river and there’s a steep drop-off? No, you probably don’t. We were on our way to their betrothal celebration; Arne and his sons had come by ship to Oslo.” Then Simon fell silent.

  “She must have been happy, Sigrid—because she was going to marry Gjavvald,” said Kristin, shy and timid.

  “Yes,” said Simon. “And she had a son by him—on the Feast Day of the Apostles this spring.”

  “Oh, Simon!”

  Sigrid Andresdatter, with the brown curls framing her small round face. Whenever she laughed, deep dimples appeared in her cheeks. The dimples and the small, childish white teeth—Simon had them too. Kristin remembered that when she grew less kindly inclined toward her betrothed, these things seemed to her unmanly, especially after she had met Erlend. They were much alike, Sigrid and Simon; but in her case it seemed charming that she was so plump and quick to laughter. She was fourteen winters old back then. Kristin had never heard such merry laughter as Sigrid’s. Simon was always teasing his youngest sister and joking with her; Kristin could see that of all his siblings, he was most fond of her.

  “You know that Father loved Sigrid best,” said Simon. “That’s why he wanted to see whether she and Gjavvald would like each other before he made this agreement with Arne. And they did—in my mind a little more than was proper. They always had to sit close whenever they met, and they would steal looks at each other and laugh. That was last summer at Dyfrin. But they were so young. No one could have imagined this. And our sister Astrid—you know she was betrothed when you and I . . . Well, she voiced no objections; Torgrim is very wealthy and kind, and in a certain way . . . but he finds fault with everyone and everything, and he thinks he suffers from all the ailments and troubles that anyone can name. So all of us were happy when Sigrid seemed so pleased with the man chosen for her.

  “And then we brought Gjavvald’s body to the manor. Halfrid, my wife, arranged things so that Sigrid would come home with us to Mandvik. And then it came out that Sigrid wasn’t left alone when Gjavvald died.”

  They were silent for a while. Then Kristin said softly, “This has not been a joyful journey for you, Simon.”

  “No, it hasn’t.” Then he gave a laugh. “But I’ve gotten used to traveling on unfortunate business, Kristin. And I was the closest one, after all—Father lacked the courage, and they’re living with me at Mandvik, Sigrid and her son. But now he’ll have a place in his father’s lineage, and I could see from all of them there that he won’t be unwelcome, the poor l
ittle boy, when he goes to live with them.”

  “But what of your sister?” asked Kristin, breathlessly. “Where is she to live?”

  Simon looked down at the ground.

  “Father will take her home to Dyfrin now,” he said in a low voice.

  “Simon! Oh, how can you have the heart to agree to this?”

  “You must realize,” he replied without looking up, “that it’s a great advantage for the boy, that he’ll be part of his father’s family from the beginning. Halfrid and I, we would have liked to keep both of them with us. No sister could be more loyal and loving toward another than Halfrid is toward Sigrid. None of our kinsmen has been unkind toward her—you mustn’t think that. Not even Father, although this has made him a broken man. But can’t you see? It wouldn’t be right if any of us objected to the innocent boy gaining inheritance and lineage from his father.”

  Kristin’s child let go of her breast. She quickly drew her garments closed over her bosom and, trembling, hugged the infant close. He hiccupped happily a couple of times and then spit up a little over himself and his mother’s hands.

  Simon glanced at the two of them and said with an odd smile, “You had better luck, Kristin, than my sister did.”

  “Yes, no doubt it may seem unfair to you,” said Kristin softly,

  “that I’m called wife and my son was lawfully born. I might have deserved to be left with the fatherless child of a paramour.”

  “That would seem to me the worst thing I could have heard,” said Simon. “I wish you only the best, Kristin,” he said even more quietly.

  A moment later he asked her for directions. He mentioned that he had come north by ship from Tunsberg. “Now I must continue on and see about catching up with my servant.”

  “Is it Finn who’s traveling with you?” asked Kristin.

  “No. Finn is married now; he’s no longer in my service. Do you still remember him?” asked Simon, and his voice sounded pleased.

  “Is Sigrid’s son a handsome child?” asked Kristin, looking at Naakkve.

  “I hear that he is. I think one infant looks much like another,” replied Simon.

  “Then you must not have children of your own,” said Kristin, giving a little smile.

  “No,” he said curtly. Then he bid her farewell and rode off.

  When Kristin continued on, she didn’t put her child on her back. She carried him in her arms, pressing his face against the hollow of her neck. She could think of nothing else but Sigrid Andresdatter.

  Her own father would not have been able to do it. Should Lavrans Bjørgulfsøn ride off to beg for a place and rank for his daughter’s bastard child among the father’s kinsmen? He would never have been able to do that. And never, never would he have had the heart to take her child away from her—to pull a tiny infant out of his mother’s arms, tear him away from her breast while he still had mother’s milk on his innocent lips. My Naakkve, no he wouldn’t do that—even if it were ten times more just to do so, my father would not have done it.

  But she couldn’t get the image out of her mind: a group of horsemen vanishing north of the gorge, where the valley grows narrow and the mountains crowd together, black with trees. Cold wind comes in gusts from the river, which thunders over the rocks, icy green and frothing, with deep black pools in between. Whoever throws himself into it would be crushed in the rapids at once. Jesus, Maria.

  Then she envisioned the fields back home at Jørundgaard on a light summer night. She saw herself running down the path to the green clearing in the alder grove near the river, where they used to wash clothes. The water rushed past with a loud, monotonous roar along the flat riverbed filled with boulders. Lord Jesus, there is nothing else I can do.

  Oh, but Father would not have had the heart to do it. No matter how right it was. If I begged and begged him, begged on my knees: Father, you mustn’t take my child from me.

  Kristin stood on the hill at Feginsbrekka and looked down at the town lying at her feet in the golden evening sun. Beyond the wide, glittering curve of the river lay brown farm buildings with green sod roofs; the crowns of the trees were dark and domelike in the gardens. She saw light-colored stone houses with stepped gables, churches thrusting their black, shingle-covered backs into the air, and churches with dully gleaming roofs of lead. But above the green landscape, above the glorious town, rose Christ Church so magnificently huge and radiantly bright, as if everything lay prone at its feet. With the evening sun on its breast and the sparkling glass of its windows, with its towers and dizzying spires and gilded weather vanes, the cathedral stood pointing up into the bright summer sky.

  All around lay the summer-green land, bearing venerable manors on its hills. In the distance the fjord opened out, shining and wide, with drifting shadows from the large summer clouds that billowed up over the glittering blue mountains on the other side. The cloister island looked like a green wreath with flowers of stone-white buildings, softly lapped by the sea. So many ships’ masts out among the islands, so many beautiful houses.

  Overcome and sobbing, the young woman sank down before the cross at the side of the road, where thousands of pilgrims had lain and thanked God because helping hands were extended to them on their journey through the perilous and beautiful world.

  The bells of the churches and cloisters were ringing for vespers as Kristin entered the courtyard of Christ Church. For a moment she ventured to glance up at the west gable—then she lowered her dazzled eyes.

  Human beings could not have done this work on their own. God’s spirit had been at work in holy Øistein and the men who built the church after him. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Now she understood those words. A reflection of the splendor of God’s kingdom bore witness through the stones that His will was all that was beautiful. Kristin trembled. Yes, God must surely turn away with scorn from all that was vile—from sin and shame and impurity.

  Along the galleries of the heavenly palace stood holy men and women, and they were so beautiful that she dared not look at them. The imperishable vines of eternity wound their way upward, calm and lovely, bursting into flower on spires and towers with stone monstrances. Above the center door hung Christ on the cross; Mary and John the Evangelist stood at his side. And they were white, as if molded from snow, and gold glittered on the white.

  Three times Kristin walked around the church, praying. The huge, massive walls with their bewildering wealth of pillars and arches and windows, the glimpse of the roof’s enormous slanting surface, the tower, the gold of the spire rising high into the heavens—Kristin sank to the ground beneath her sin.

  She was shaking as she kissed the hewn stone of the portal. In a flash she saw the dark carved timber around the church door back home, where as a child she had pressed her lips after her father and mother.

  She sprinkled holy water over her son and herself, remembering that her father had done the same when she was small. With the child clasped tightly in her arms, she stepped forward into the church.

  She walked as if through a forest. The pillars were furrowed like ancient trees, and into the woods the light seeped, colorful and as clear as song, through the stained-glass windows. High overhead animals and people frolicked in the stone foliage, and angels played their instruments. At an even higher, more dizzying height, the vaults of the ceiling arched upward, lifting the church toward God. In a hall off to the side a service was being held at an altar. Kristin fell to her knees next to a pillar. The song cut through her like a blinding light. Now she saw how deep in the dust she lay.

  Pater noster. Credo in unum Deum. Ave Maria, gratia plena. She had learned her prayers by repeating them after her father and mother before she could understand a single word, from as far back as she could remember. Lord Jesus Christ. Was there ever a sinner like her?

  High beneath the triumphal arch, raised above the people, hung Christ on the cross. The pure virgin, who was his mother, stood looking up in deathly anguish at her innocent son who was sufferin
g the death of a criminal.

  And here knelt Kristin with the fruit of her sin in her arms. She hugged the child tight—he was as fresh as an apple, pink and white like a rose. He was awake now, and he lay there looking up at her with his clear, sweet eyes.

  Conceived in sin. Carried under her hard, evil heart. Pulled out of her sin-tainted body, so pure, so healthy, so inexpressibly lovely and fresh and innocent. This undeserved beneficence broke her heart in two; crushed with remorse, she lay there with tears welling up out of her soul like blood from a mortal wound.

  Naakkve, Naakkve, my child. God visits the sins of the parents upon the children. Didn’t I know that? Yes, I did. But I had no mercy for the innocent life that might be awakened in my womb—to be cursed and tormented because of my sin.

  Did I regret my sin while I was carrying you inside me, my beloved, beloved son? Oh no, there was no remorse. My heart was hard with anger and evil thoughts at the moment I first felt you move, so small and unprotected. Magnificat anima mea Dominum. Et exultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo.2 That is what she sang, the gentle queen of women, when she was chosen to bear the one who would die for our sins. I didn’t think about the one who was the redeemer of my sin and my child’s sin. Oh, no, there was no remorse. Instead I made myself pitiful and wretched and begged that the commandments of righteousness be broken, for I could not bear it if God should keep His promise and punish me in accordance with the Word that I have known all my days.

  Oh yes, now she knew. She had thought that God was like her own father, that Holy Olav was like her father. All along she had expected, deep in her heart, that whenever the punishment became more than she could bear, then she would encounter not righteousness but mercy.

  She wept so hard that she didn’t have the strength to rise when the others stood up during the service; she stayed there, collapsed in a heap, holding her child. Near her several other people knelt who did not rise either: two well-dressed farmers’ wives with a young boy between them.