Kristin Lavransdatter

by Sigrid Undset

  “Yes, you do,” she replied fiercely. “You’re a man just like that Tristan.”

  “I find it hard to believe”—he tried to laugh—“that I should be compared with the handsome Tristan. And the two women you mentioned . . . If I remember right, they lived and died as pure maidens, untouched by their husbands.” He looked at his wife. The little triangle of her face was pale, and she was biting her lip.

  Simon set his foot down, straightened up, and put both hands on her shoulders.

  “My Ramborg, you and I have two children,” he said softly.

  She didn’t reply.

  “I’ve done my best to show you my gratitude for that gift. I thought . . . I’ve tried to be a good husband to you.”

  When she didn’t speak, he let her go, went over to a bench, and sat down. Ramborg followed and stood before him, looking down at her husband: his broad thighs in the wet, muddy hose, his stout body, his heavy reddish-brown face. Her lip curled with displeasure.

  “You’ve grown so ugly over the years, Simon.”

  “Well, I’ve never thought myself to be a handsome man,” he said calmly.

  “But I’m young and pretty. . . .” She sat down on his lap, the tears pouring from her eyes as she held his head in her hands. “Simon, look at me. Why can’t you reward me for this? Never have I wanted to belong to anyone but you. It’s what I dreamed of ever since I was a little maiden: that my husband would be a man like you. Do you remember how we were once allowed to follow along with you, both Ulvhild and I? You were going with Father to the west pasture, to look at his foals. You carried Ulvhild over the creek, and Father was going to lift me up, but I cried that I wanted you to carry me too. Do you remember?”

  Simon nodded. He remembered paying a great deal of attention to Ulvhild because he thought it so sad that the lovely child was crippled. Of the youngest daughter he had no memory, except that he knew there was a girl younger than Ulvhild.

  “You had the most beautiful hair. . . .” Ramborg ran her fingers through the lock of wavy light-brown hair that fell over her husband’s forehead. “And there’s still not a single streak of gray. Erlend’s hair will soon be as much white as black. And I always loved to see the deep dimples in your cheeks when you smiled . . . and the fact that you had such a merry voice.”

  “Yes, no doubt I looked a little better back then than I do now.”

  “No,” she whispered fiercely. “When you look at me tenderly . . . Do you remember the first time I slept in your arms? I was in bed, whimpering over a toothache. Father and Mother were asleep, and it was dark in the loft, but you came over to the bench where we lay, Ulvhild and I, and asked me why I was crying. You told me to hush and not wake the others; then you lifted me in your arms. You lit a candle and cut a splinter of wood and then poked at my gums around the aching tooth until you drew blood. Then you said a prayer over the splinter, and the tooth didn’t hurt anymore. And I was allowed to sleep in your bed, and you held me in your arms.”

  Simon placed his hand on her head, pressing it to his shoulder. Now that she spoke of it, he remembered. It was when he had come to Jørundgaard to tell Lavrans that the bond between him and Kristin had to be broken. He had slept very little that night. And now he recalled that he had gotten up to tend to little Ramborg, who lay fretting over a toothache.

  “Have I ever behaved toward you in such a way, my Ramborg, that you thought it right to say that I didn’t love you?”

  “Simon . . . don’t you think I might deserve that you loved me more than Kristin? She was wicked and dishonest toward you, while I have stayed with you like a little lapdog all these years.”

  Gently Simon lifted her off his lap, stood up, and took her hands in his.

  “Speak no more of your sister, Ramborg—not in that manner. I wonder whether you even realize what you’re saying. Don’t you think that I fear God? Can you believe that I would be so unafraid of shame and the worst of sins, or that I wouldn’t think of my children and all my kinsmen and friends? I’m your husband, Ramborg. Don’t forget that, and don’t talk of such things to me.”

  “I know you haven’t broken any of God’s commandments or breached any laws or code of honor.”

  “Never have I spoken a word to your sister or touched her with my hand in any way that I cannot defend on the Day of Judgment. This I swear before God and the apostle Saint Simon.”

  Ramborg nodded silently.

  “Do you think your sister would have treated me as she has all these years if she thought, as you do, that I love her with sinful desire? Then you don’t know Kristin.”

  “Oh, she has never thought about whether any man might desire her, except for Erlend. She hardly notices that the rest of us are flesh and blood.”

  “Yes, what you say is probably true, Ramborg,” replied Simon calmly. “But then you must realize how senseless it is for you to torment me with your jealousy.”

  Ramborg pulled her hands away.

  “I didn’t mean to do so, Simon. But you’ve never loved me the way you love her. She is still always in your thoughts, but you seldom think of me unless you see me.”

  “I’m not to blame, Ramborg, if a man’s heart is created in such a fashion that whatever is inscribed on it when it’s young and fresh is carved deeper than all the runes that are later etched.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard the saying that a man’s heart is the first thing to come alive in his mother’s womb and the last thing to die inside him?” replied Ramborg quietly.

  “No . . . Is there such a saying? That might well be true.” Lightly he caressed her cheek. “But if we’re going to get any sleep tonight, we should go to bed now,” he said wearily.

  Ramborg fell asleep after a while. Simon slipped his arm out from under her neck, moved over to the very edge of the bed, and pulled the fur covers all the way up to his chin. His shirt was soaked through at the shoulder from her tears. He felt a bitter sympathy for his wife, but at the same time he realized with renewed bewilderment that he could no longer treat her as if she were a blind and inexperienced child. Now he had to acknowledge that Ramborg was a full-grown woman.

  Gray light appeared in the windowpane; the May night was fading. He was dead tired, and tomorrow was the Sabbath. He wouldn’t go to church in the morning, even though he might need to. He had once promised Lavrans that he would never miss a mass without an exceedingly good reason. But it hadn’t helped him much to keep that promise during all these years, he thought bitterly. Tomorrow he was not going to ride to mass.

  PART II

  DEBTORS

  CHAPTER 1

  KRISTIN DID NOT hear a full account of what had happened between Erlend and Simon. Her husband told her and Bjørgulf what Simon had said about his journey to Dyfrin, and he said that afterward they had exchanged words and ended up parting as foes. “I can’t tell you any more than that.”

  Erlend was rather pale, his expression firm and resolute. She had seen him look that way only a few times before, in all the years she had been married to him. She knew that this was something he would refuse to discuss any further.

  She had never liked it when Erlend countered her questions with that expression. God only knew she didn’t consider herself more than a simple woman; she would have preferred to avoid taking responsibility for anything but her own children and her household duties. And yet she had been forced to deal with so many things that seemed to her more appropriate concerns for a man to handle. But Erlend had thought it quite reasonable to let them rest on her shoulders. So it didn’t suit him to act so overbearing and to rebuff her when she wanted to know about things that he had undertaken on his own that would affect the welfare of them all.

  She took this enmity between Erlend and Simon Darre greatly to heart. Ramborg was her only sister. And when she thought about losing Simon’s companionship, she realized for the first time how fond she had become of this man and how much gratitude she owed him. His loyal friendship had been the best support she had in her difficu
lt situation.

  She knew that now people would be talking about this all over the countryside: that the folks of Jørundgaard had quarreled with Simon of Formo too. Simon and Ramborg were liked and respected by everyone. But most people regarded Kristin, her husband, and her sons with suspicion and ill will; this was something she had noticed long ago. Now they would be so alone.

  Kristin felt as if she would sink into the earth from sorrow and shame on that first Sunday when she arrived at the green in front of the church and saw Simon standing a short distance away, among a group of farmers. He greeted her and her family with a nod, but it was the first time he didn’t come over to shake hands and talk with them.

  Ramborg did come over to her sister and took her hand. “It’s dreadful that our husbands have fallen into discord, but you and I need not quarrel because of that.” She stood on her toes to kiss Kristin so that everyone in the churchyard could see it. Kristin wasn’t sure why, but she seemed to sense that Ramborg was not as sad as she might have been. She had never liked Erlend; God only knew whether she had set her husband against him, intentionally or not.

  And yet Ramborg always came over to greet her sister whenever they met at church. Ulvhild asked in a loud voice why her aunt didn’t come south to visit them anymore; then she ran over to Erlend, to cling to him and his oldest sons. Arngjerd stood quietly at her stepmother’s side, took Kristin’s hand, and looked embarrassed. Simon and Erlend, along with his sons, vigilantly avoided each other.

  Kristin greatly missed her sister’s children as well. She had grown fond of the two maidens. One day when Ramborg brought her son to mass, Kristin kissed Andres after the service and then burst into tears. She loved this tiny, frail boy so dearly. She couldn’t help it, but now that she no longer had any small children of her own, it was a comfort to her to look after this little nephew from Formo and pamper him whenever his parents brought him along to Jørundgaard.

  From Gaute she learned a little more about the matter because he told her what words were spoken between Erlend and Simon on that night when they met at Skindfeld-Gudrun’s hut. The longer Kristin thought about it, the more it seemed to her that Erlend was most at fault. She had felt bitter toward Simon because he ought to have known his kinsman well enough to realize that Erlend would not have betrayed and deceived his brother in any dishonorable way, no matter how many strange things he might do out of recklessness or on impulse. And whenever Erlend saw what he had done, he usually behaved like a skittish stallion that has torn its reins loose and become wild with fright at what is dragging along behind.

  But Erlend never seemed to understand that sometimes other people needed to protect their own interests in the face of the mischief that he had such a rare talent for stirring up. Then Erlend would fail to guard his tongue or watch how he behaved. She remembered from her own experience, back when she was still young and tender; time after time she had felt as if he were trampling on her heart with his reckless behavior. He had driven away his own brother. Even before Gunnulf entered the monastery, he had withdrawn from them, and she knew that Erlend was to blame. He had so often offended his pious and worthy brother, even though Gunnulf had never done anything but good for Erlend, as far as she knew. Now he had pushed Simon away, and when she wanted to know what had caused this animosity between him and their only friend, Erlend merely gave her a stubborn look and said he couldn’t tell her.

  She could see that he had told Naakkve more.

  Kristin felt dismayed and uneasy when she noticed that Erlend and her eldest son would fall silent or change the topic of their conversation as soon as she came near, and this was not a rare occurrence.

  Gaute and Lavrans and Munan kept closer to their mother than Nikulaus had ever done, and she had always talked more to them than to him. And yet she still felt that of all her children, her firstborn son was in some sense closest to her heart. After she had returned to live at Jørundgaard, memories of the time when she bore this son under her heart and gave birth to him became strangely vivid and alive. For she noticed in so many ways that the people of Sil had not forgotten the sins of her youth. It was almost as if they felt she had tarnished the honor of the entire region when she, daughter of the man who was regarded as their chieftain, had gone astray. They had not forgiven her, or the fact that she and Erlend had added mockery to Lavrans’s sorrow and shame when they fooled him into giving away a seduced maiden with the grandest wedding that had ever been seen in Gudbrandsdal.

  Kristin didn’t know whether Erlend realized that people had begun gossiping about these old subjects again. If he did, he probably paid them no mind. He considered her neighbors no more than homespun farmers and fools, every one of them. And he taught his sons to think the same. It pained her soul to know that these people who had wished her so well back when she was Lavrans Bjørg ulfsøn’s pretty daughter, the rose of the northern valley, now despised Erlend Nikulaussøn and his wife and judged them harshly. She didn’t plead with them; she didn’t weep because she had become a stranger among them. But it hurt nevertheless. And it seemed as if even the steep mountains surrounding the valley that had sheltered her childhood now looked differently at her and her home: black with menace and stone-gray with a fierce determination to subdue her.

  Once she had wept bitterly. Erlend knew about it, and he had had little patience with her back then. When he discovered that she had walked alone for many months with the burden of his child under her frightened, sorrowful heart, he did not take her in his arms and console her with tender and loving words. He was bitter and ashamed that it would come out how dishonorably he had acted toward Lavrans. But he hadn’t thought about how much more difficult it would be for her on that day when she stood in disgrace before her proud and loving father.

  And Erlend had not greeted his son with much joy when she finally brought the child into the light of life. That moment when her soul was released from endless anguish and dread and torment and she saw the hideous, shapeless fruit of her sin come alive under the fervent prayers of the priest and become the most beloved and healthy of children, then it felt as if her heart would melt with humble joy, and even the hot, defiant blood of her body turned to sweet, white, innocent milk. Yes, with God’s help the boy would doubtless become a man, Erlend had said as she lay in bed, wanting him to rejoice with her over this precious treasure, which she could hardly bear to let out of her arms when the women wanted to tend to the child. He loved the children he had by Eline Ormsdatter—that much she had both seen and sensed—but when she carried Naakkve over to Erlend and tried to place him in his father’s arms, Erlend wrinkled his nose and asked what he was supposed to do with this infant who leaked from both ends. For years Erlend would only grudgingly look at his eldest, lawfully born son, unable to forget that Naakkve had come into the world at an inopportune time. And yet the boy was such a handsome and good and promising child that any father would rejoice to see such a son grow up to succeed him.

  From the time he was quite little, Naakkve loved his father so dearly that it was wondrous to behold. His whole small, fair face would light up like the sun whenever his father took him on his knee for a moment and spoke a few words to him or he was allowed to hold his father’s hand to cross the courtyard. Steadfastly Naakkve had courted his father’s favor during that time when Erlend was more fond of all his other children than the eldest. Bjørgulf was his father’s favorite when the boys were small, and occasionally Erlend would take his sons along to the armory when he went up there. That was where all the armor and weapons were kept that were not in daily use at Husaby. While his father talked and bantered with Bjørgulf, Naakkve would sit quietly on top of a chest, simply breathing with happiness because he was allowed to be there.

  But as time passed and Bjørgulf’s poor eyesight meant that he could not accompany Erlend as readily as his other sons, and Bjørg ulf also grew more taciturn and withdrawn, things changed. Erlend began to seem almost a little embarrassed in the boy’s presence. Kristin wondered whether
Bjørgulf, in his heart, blamed his father for destroying their well-being and taking his sons’ future with him when he fell—and whether Erlend knew or guessed as much. However that might be, Bjørgulf was the only one of Erlend’s sons who did not seem to look up to him with blind love and boundless pride at calling him Father.

  One morning the two smallest boys noticed that Erlend was reading from the prayer book and fasting on bread and water. They asked him why he was doing this since it wasn’t a fast day. Erlend replied that it was because of his sins. Kristin knew that these fast days were part of the penance that had been imposed upon Erlend for breaking his marriage vows with Sunniva Olavsdatter, and she knew that her oldest sons were aware of this. Naakkve and Gaute seemed untroubled by it, but she happened to glance at Bjørgulf at that moment. The boy was sitting at the table, squinting nearsightedly at his bowl of food and chuckling to himself. Kristin had seen Gunnulf smile that way several times when Erlend was being most boastful. She didn’t like it.

  Now it was Naakkve whom Erlend always wanted to take along. And the youth seemed to come alive, as if all his roots were attached to his father. Naakkve served his father the way a young page serves his lord and chieftain. He took care of his father’s horse himself and kept his harnesswork and weapons in order. He fastened Erlend’s spurs on his feet and brought his hat and cape when Erlend was going out. He filled his father’s goblet and served him slices of meat at the table, sitting on the bench just to the right of Erlend’s seat. Erlend jested a bit over the boy’s chivalrous and noble manners, but he was pleased, and he commanded more and more of Naakkve’s attention.

  Kristin saw that Erlend had now completely forgotten how she had struggled and begged to win from him a scrap of fatherly love for this child. And Naakkve had forgotten the time when she was the one he turned to, seeking solace from all his ills and advice for all his troubles when he was little. He had always been a loving son toward his mother, and he still was in many ways, but she felt that the older the boy became, the farther away he moved from her and her concerns. Naakkve lacked all sense for what she had to cope with. He was never disobliging when she gave him a task to do, but he was oddly awkward and clumsy at anything that might be called farm work. He did the chores without interest or desire and never finished anything. His mother thought that in many ways he was not unlike his deceased half brother, Orm Er lendssøn; he also resembled him in appearance. But Naakkve was strong and healthy, a lively dancer and sportsman, an excellent bowman and tolerably skilled in the use of other weapons, a good horseman and a superb skier. Kristin spoke about this one day to Ulf Haldorssøn, Naakkve’s foster father.