Kristin Lavransdatter

by Sigrid Undset

  Kristin’s heart clenched tight.

  They had taken Bjørgulf away from her. He whimpered whenever she tried to hold him, and Frida would put him to her own breast at once. His foster mother kept a jealous watch over the boy. But Kristin would refuse to let the new child go. Her mother and Erlend had said that she should be spared, and so they took her newborn son away and gave him to another woman. She felt an almost vengeful joy when she thought that their only accomplishment was that she would now be having a third child before Bjørgulf was even eleven months old.

  She didn’t dare speak of this to Sira Eiliv. He would merely think that she was resentful because now she would have to go through all of that again so soon. But that wasn’t it.

  She had come home from her pilgrimage with a deep dread in her soul—never would that wild desire have power over her again. Until the end of summer she lived alone with her child in the old house, weighing in her mind the words of the archbishop and Gunnulf’s speech, vigilantly praying and repenting, diligently working to put the neglected farm in order, to win over her servants with kindness and concern for their welfare, eager to help and serve all those around her as far as her hands and her power might reach. A cool and wondrous peace descended upon her. She sustained herself with thoughts of her father, she sustained herself with prayers to the holy men and women Sira Eiliv read to her about, and she pondered their steadfastness and courage. And tender with joy and gratitude, she remembered Brother Edvin, who had appeared before her in the moonlight on that night. She had understood his message when he smiled so gently and hung his glove on the moonbeam. If only she had enough faith, she would become a good woman.

  When their first year of marriage came to an end, she had to move back in with her husband. Whenever she felt doubtful, she would console herself that the archbishop himself had impressed upon her that in her life with her husband she should show her new change of heart. And she strove zealously to tend to his welfare and his honor. Erlend himself had said: “And so it has happened after all, Kristin—you have brought honor back to Husaby.” People showed her great kindness and respect; everyone seemed willing to forget that she had begun her marriage a little impetuously. Whenever the women gathered, they would seek out her advice; people praised her housekeeping at the manor, she was summoned to assist with weddings and with births on the great estates, and no one made her feel that she was too young or inexperienced or a newcomer to the region. The servants would remain sitting in the hall until late into the evening, just as they did back home at Jørundgaard—they all had something to ask their mistress about. She felt a rush of exhilaration that people were so kind to her and that Erlend was proud of her.

  Then Erlend took charge of the men called up for duty on the ships south of the fjord. He dashed around, riding or sailing, and he was busy with people who came to see him and letters that had to be sent. He was so young and handsome, and so happy—the listless, dejected look that she had often seen come over him in the past seemed to have been swept away. He sparkled with alertness, like the morning. He had little time left over for her now; but she grew dizzy and wild whenever he came near her with his smiling face and those adventure-loving eyes.

  She had laughed with him at the letter that had come from Munan Baardsøn. The knight had not attended the gathering of the king’s retainers himself, but he ridiculed the entire meeting and especially the fact that Erling Vidkunssøn had been appointed leader of the realm. But first Erling had probably given himself new titles—no doubt he would want to be called regent now. Munan also wrote about her father:

  The mountain wolf from Sil crept under a rock and sat there mutely. I mean that your father-in-law took lodgings with the priests at Saint Laurentius Church and did not let his fair voice be heard at the discussions. He had in his possession letters bearing the seals of Sir Erngisle and Sir Karl Turessön; if they haven’t yet been worn out it’s because the parchment was tougher than the soles of Satan’s shoes. You should also know that Lavrans gave eight marks of pure silver to Nonneseter. Apparently the man realized that Kristin was not as docile when she was there as she should have been.

  Kristin felt a stab of pain and shame at this, but she had to laugh along with Erlend. For her the winter and spring had passed in exhilarating merriment and happiness, with now and then a squall for Orm’s sake—Erlend couldn’t decide whether he should take the boy north with him. It ended with an outburst during Easter. One night Erlend wept in her arms: he didn’t dare take his son on board for fear that Orm wouldn’t be able to hold his own during a war. She had comforted him and herself—and the youth. Perhaps the boy would grow stronger over the years.

  On the day she rode with Erlend to the anchorage at Birgsi, she couldn’t feel either fearful or sad. She was almost intoxicated with him and with his joy and high spirits.

  At that time she didn’t know she was already carrying another child. When she felt unwell she had thought . . . Erlend was so exuberant, there had been so much commotion and drinking at home, and Naakkve was sucking the strength out of her. When she felt the new life stir inside her, she was . . . She had been looking forward to the winter, to traveling to town and around the valley with her bold and handsome husband; she was young and beautiful herself. She had planned to wean the boy by autumn; it was troublesome always having to take him and the nursemaid along wherever she went. She was certain that in this Russian campaign Erlend would prove fit for something other than ruining his name and his property. No, she had not been glad, and she told this to Sira Eiliv. Then the priest had reprimanded her quite sternly for her unloving and worldly disposition. And all summer long she had tried to be happy and to thank God for the new child she was to have, and for the good reports she heard about Erlend’s courageous actions in the north.

  Then he returned home just before Michaelmas. And she saw that he was not pleased when he realized what was to come. He said as much that evening.

  “I thought that when I finally had you, it would be like celebrating Christmas every day. But now it seems that there will be mostly long periods of fasting.”

  Every time she thought about this, the blood would rush to her face, just as hot as on that evening when she turned away from him, flushing deep red and shedding no tears. Erlend had tried to make amends with love and kindness. But she couldn’t forget it. The fire inside her, which all her tears of remorse had been unable to extinguish and all her fear of sin could not smother—it was as if Erlend had stomped it out with his foot when he said those words.

  Late that night they sat in front of the fireplace in Gunnulf’s house—the priest and Kristin and Orm. A jug of wine and a few small goblets stood at the edge of the hearth. Master Gunnulf had suggested several times that his guests ought to seek rest. But Kristin begged to stay sitting there a little longer.

  “Do you remember, brother-in-law,” she said, “that I once told you that the priest back home at Jørundgaard counseled me to enter a cloister if Father would not give his consent for Erlend to marry me?”

  Gunnulf glanced involuntarily at Orm. But Kristin said with a wry little smile, “Do you think this grown-up boy doesn’t know that I’m a weak and sinful woman?”

  Master Gunnulf replied softly, “Did you feel a yearning for the life of a nun back then, Kristin?”

  “No doubt God would have opened my eyes once I had decided to serve Him.”

  “Perhaps He thought that your eyes needed to be opened so you would learn that you ought to serve Him wherever you are. Your husband, children, and the servants at Husaby need to have a faithful and patient servant woman of God living among them and tending to their welfare.

  “Of course the maiden who makes the best marriage is the one who chooses Christ as her bridegroom and refuses to give herself to a sinful man. But the child who has already done wrong . . .”

  “ ‘I wish that you could have come to God with your wreath,’ ” whispered Kristin. “That’s what he said to me, Brother Edvin Rikardssøn, the mo
nk I’ve often told you about. Do you feel the same way?”

  Gunnulf Nikulaussøn nodded. And yet many a woman has pulled herself up from a life of sin with such strength that we dare pray for her intercession. But this happened more often in the past, when she was threatened with torture and fire and glowing tongs if she called herself a Christian. I have often thought, Kristin, that back then it was easier to tear oneself away from the bonds of sin, when it could be done forcefully and all at once. And yet we humans are so corrupt—but courage is by nature present in the heart of many, and courage is what often drives a soul to seek God. The torments have incited just as many people to faithfulness as they have frightened others into apostasy. But a young, lost child who is torn from sinful desire even before she has learned to understand what it has brought upon her soul—a child placed in an order of nuns among pure maidens who have given themselves up to watch over and pray for those who are asleep out in the world . . .

  “I wish it would soon be summer,” he said suddenly and stood up.

  The other two looked at him in amazement.

  “Oh, I happened to think about when the cuckoo was singing on the slopes in the morning back home at Husaby. First we would hear the one on the ridge to the east, behind the buildings, and then the other would reply from far off, in the woods close to By. It sounded so lovely out across the lake in the stillness of the morning. Don’t you think it’s beautiful at Husaby, Kristin?”

  “The cuckoo in the east is the cuckoo of sorrow,” said Orm Er lendssøn quietly. “Husaby seems to me the fairest manor in the world.”

  The priest placed his hands on his nephew’s narrow shoulders for a moment.

  “I thought so too, kinsman. It was my father’s estate for me too. The youngest son stands no closer to inheriting the ancestral farm than you do, dear Orm!”

  “When Father was living with my mother, you were the closest heir,” said the young boy in the same quiet voice.

  “We’re not to blame, Orm—my children and I,” said Kristin sorrowfully.

  “You must have noticed that I bear you no rancor,” he replied softly.

  “It’s such an open, wide landscape,” said Kristin after a moment. “You can see so far from Husaby, and the sky is so . . . so vast. Where I come from, the sky is like a roof above the mountain slopes. The valley lies sheltered, round and green and fresh. The world seems just the right size—neither too big nor too small.” She sighed and her hands began fidgeting in her lap.

  “Was his home there—the man your father wanted you to marry?” asked the priest, and Kristin nodded.

  “Do you ever regret that you refused to have him?” he then asked, and she shook her head.

  Gunnulf went over and pulled a book from the shelf. He sat down near the fire again, opened the clasps, and began turning the pages. But he didn’t read; he sat with the open book on his lap.

  “When Adam and his wife had defied God’s will, then they felt in their own flesh a power that defied their will. God had created them, man and woman, young and beautiful, so that they would live together in marriage and give birth to other heirs who would receive the gifts of His goodness: the beauty of the Garden of Eden, the fruit of the tree of life, and eternal happiness. They didn’t need to be ashamed of their bodies because as long as they were obedient to God, their whole body and all of their limbs were under the command of their will, just as a hand or a foot is.”

  Blushing blood-red, Kristin folded her hands under her breast. The priest bent toward her slightly; she felt his strong amber eyes on her lowered face.

  “Eve stole what belonged to God, and her husband accepted it when she gave him what rightfully was the property of their Father and Creator. They wanted to be His equal—and they noticed that the first way in which they became His equal was this: Just as they had betrayed His dominion over the great world, so too was their dominion betrayed over the small world, the soul’s house of flesh. Just as they had forsaken their Lord God, the body would now forsake its master, the soul.

  “Then these bodies seemed to them so hideous and hateful that they made clothes to cover them. First a short apron of fig leaves. But as they became more and more familiar with their own carnal nature, they drew the clothes up over their heart and their back, which is unwilling to bend. Until today, when men dress themselves in steel all the way to their fingertips and toes and hide their faces behind the grids of their helmets. In this way unrest and deceit have grown in the world.”

  “Help me, Gunnulf,” begged Kristin. She was white to the very edge of her lips. “I don’t know my own will.”

  “Then say: Thy will be done,” replied the priest softly. “You know you must open your heart to His love. Then you must love Him once more with all the power of your soul.”

  Kristin abruptly turned to face her brother-in-law.

  “You can’t know how much I loved Erlend. And my children!”

  “Dear sister—all other love is merely a reflection of the heavens in the puddles of a muddy road. You will become sullied too if you allow yourself to sink into it. But if you always remember that it’s a reflection of the light from that other home, then you will rejoice at its beauty and take good care that you do not destroy it by churning up the mire at the bottom.”

  “Yes, but as a priest, Gunnulf, you have promised God that you would shun these . . . difficulties.”

  “As you have too, Kristin—when you promised to forsake the Devil and his work. The Devil’s work is what begins in sweet desire and ends with two people becoming like the snake and the toad, snapping at each other. That’s what Eve learned, when she tried to give her husband and her descendants what belonged to God. She brought them nothing but banishment and the shame of blood and death, which entered the world when brother killed brother in that first small field, where thorns and thistles grew among the heaps of stones around the patches of land.”

  “Yes, but you’re a priest,” she said in the same tone of voice. “You’re not subjected to the daily trial of trying to agree patiently with the will of another.” And she broke into tears.

  The priest said with a little smile, “About that matter there is disagreement between body and soul in every mother’s child. That’s why marriage and the wedding mass were created—so that man and woman would be given help in their lives: married folk and parents and children and house servants as loyal and helpful companions on the journey toward the house of peace.”

  Kristin said quietly, “It seems to me that it would be easier to watch over and pray for those who are asleep out in the world than to struggle with one’s own sins.”

  “That may be,” said the priest sharply. “But you mustn’t believe, Kristin, that there has ever been a priest who has not had to guard himself against the Fiend at the same time as he tried to protect the lambs from the wolf.”

  Kristin said in a quiet and timid voice, “I thought that those who live among the holy shrines and possess all the prayers and powerful words . . .”

  Gunnulf leaned forward, tended to the fire, and then sat with his elbows on his knees.

  “It was almost exactly six years ago that we arrived in Rome, Eiliv and I, along with two Scottish priests whom we had met in Avignon. We journeyed the whole way on foot.

  We arrived in the city just before Lent. That’s when people in the southern countries hold great celebrations and feasts—they call it carnevale. The wine, both red and white, flows in rivers from the taverns, and people dance late into the night, and there are torches and bonfires in the open marketplaces. It is springtime in Italy then, and the flowers are blooming in the meadows and gardens. The women adorn themselves with blossoms and toss roses and violets down to the people strolling along the streets. They sit up in the windows, with silk and satin tapestries hanging from the ledge over the stone walls. All buildings are made from stone down there, and the knights have their castles and strongholds in the middle of town. There are apparently no town statutes or laws about keeping the peace
in the city—the knights and their men fight in the streets, making the blood run.

  “There was such a castle on the street where we were staying, and the knight who ruled it was named Ermes Malavolti. Its shadow stretched over the entire narrow lane where our hostel stood, and our room was as dark and cold as the dungeon in a stone fortress. When we went out we often had to press ourselves up against the wall as he rode past with silver bells on his clothing and a whole troop of armed men. Muck and filth would splash up from the horses’ hooves, because in that country people simply throw all their slops and offal outdoors. The streets are cold and dark and narrow like clefts in a mountain—quite unlike the green lanes of our towns. In the streets during carnevale they hold races—they let the wild Arabian horses race against each other.”

  The priest sat in silence for a moment, then he continued.

  “This Sir Ermes had a kinswoman living at his house. Isota was her name, and she might have been Isolde the Fair One herself. Her complexion and hair were as light as honey, but her eyes were no doubt black. I saw her several times at a window. . . .

  “But outside the city the land is more desolate than the most desolate heaths in this country, and nothing lives there but deer and wolves; and the eagles scream. And yet there are towns and castles in the mountains all around, and out on the green plains you can see traces everywhere that people once lived in this world. Great flocks of sheep graze there now, along with herds of white oxen. Herdsmen with long spears follow them on horseback; they are dangerous folk for wayfarers to meet, for they will kill and rob them and throw their bodies into pits in the ground.

  “But out on these green plains are the pilgrim churches.”