The Snake Pit

by Sigrid Undset

  Torhild turned round to him and held out her hand. “Then I say thanks, Olav. I see that you wish to make good provision for me.”

  Olav squeezed her fingers. “I have behaved worst to you of all people,” he whispered. “You had the right to expect a different reward of me—”

  Torhild looked him in the eyes. “The fault is mine as much as yours, I ween, master.”

  He shook his head. Then he said quietly: “Will it not be too hard for you now—all the work of the house here?”

  “Oh no.” She smiled feebly. “But perhaps it were best that I stay here at Hestviken no longer—?”

  Olav nodded stiffly. “But the houses over at Auken are in a sorry state—sunken and roofless. I shall have them repaired and put new roofs—but you cannot move in before the summer.”

  “Then I must stay at Rundmyr meanwhile,” Torhild suggested.

  “Ay, I see no other way,” said Olav.

  A week after, Olav left home for a few days, and when he came back, Torhild had moved home to the croft at Rundmyr. And Olav discovered that he missed her—unspeakably.

  It was not that his affection for Ingunn was less or other than it had been. This was something that had grown up entirely outside it. As in a sort of mirage he had had a vision of a life very different from his own; had seen how it might be for a man to have a sound and sensible wife by his side in all things, one who took her share of their common burden and bore it with as much discretion and strength as he bore his—or even more. And to see children, sons and daughters, succeeding one another, without its breaking and slowly killing the mother to bring them into the world. It was not that he would have changed his lot for this that the vision showed him—he thought that, had he known from his first meeting with the child Ingunn what she would bring him as a dowry, he would nevertheless have reached out both hands for her.

  And yet he missed Torhild painfully. She had done him more good than any other creature. And he had repaid her in the worst way.

  Eirik had seen how it was with Torhild, like everyone else in the house, and he had not given it much thought. But there was this silence that spread around Torhild—and it began to dawn upon Eirik that there was something sinister behind it. It could not be merely that she had gone the way of so many other serving-maids.

  This silence which spread like the soundless rings in water when a stone is thrown into it. And by degrees, without a word having been said to him, Eirik became aware that this same sinister silence surged about his father too. A vague, evil dread stirred in the boy’s soul—but he could not guess what his father had to do with Torhild’s being with child. For his father was married to their mother—

  Sira Hallbjörn sent word to Hestviken that this year Eirik Olavsson must go to confession in Lent and receive the Easter sacrament; the boy was now in his tenth winter, he ought to have come the year before. Eirik forgot all his gloomy anxieties on the morning his father sent him off—the priest wished to have the children with him for a week to teach them. It was the first time Eirik was to ride alone right up to the church town; his father had lent him a little light sword, and behind his saddle he had a bag of gifts for the priest and provisions for himself.

  The day after his return he asked Olav:

  “Father—who is my godmother?”

  “Tora Steinfinnsdatter, your aunt, who is dead.” Olav was not sure of this, but believed he had heard it once. Eirik asked no more.

  Memories that he had not thought of for years began to swarm upon the boy. Half-forgotten feelings of insecurity and bewilderment were revived.—The other children had spoken of godmothers and godfathers—Sira Hallbjörn had wished to hear on the first day how much they knew of Christian religion from their homes. His father had taught Eirik his Credo, Paternoster, Ave Maria, and Gloria Patri, but that was long ago, and now he never saw that the boy said his prayers. So Eirik died not know them well, and he had almost forgotten what they meant in Norse. Nearly all the other children were better taught—and most of them had learned something from their godmother or godfather.

  Eirik remembered that while he was at Siljuaas the mother he had there pointed out a stout, splendidly clad woman one day when they were at church, saying that she was his aunt. But she had not so much as looked at him as she walked past them. He was not even sure that she was the same aunt as the one in whose house they had lodged when his father fetched him from Siljuaas. At any rate, he had never heard that she was his godmother. For the first time it occurred to him to wonder why he had been there, at Siljuaas, when he was small.—He had often heard of other children being brought up away from their parents; but it was always with kinsfolk, solitary people or old. That little maid Ingegjerd who was so pretty and wore a silver belt about her waist like a grownup maid, only that the plates were quite small, and who knew all the penitential psalms almost right—she was with her godmother, and she ruled the whole house for the childless couple and was given everything she asked for. But at Siljuaas the cabin had been poor and narrow, and Hallveig and Torgal had had plenty of other children—and he had never heard his parents mention these folk since; so they could not be kinsfolk of theirs.

  Bastard and straw-brat, he knew well enough now what those words meant, and leman too. The memory of his mother’s visit, which had frightened him so much that time—now it came up again, a living riddle. Words that he had heard his mother murmur almost to herself, when she could not hide her tears—they came up; and he remembered that his mother had once borne the keys, but they had been moved to Torhild’s belt even before her mistress became bedridden.—And now, since his mother had lain low, palsied and unfit for anything, his father had taken to himself Torhild in her stead, and she was already far gone with child, and Eirik guessed now that it was his father’s. But if his father had been married, this was a sin so grievous that scarcely any man would dare commit it. But then it must be so, that his mother was only his father’s leman.

  But then, but then—! That a rich franklin sent away his leman and children, assigned them a little home to dwell in far from his own, while he himself took in another or married—that had happened many times in the country round, and Eirik had heard of it.

  The boy’s heart was gripped by the dread of it, so that he could not sit still or stay quietly in one place. His father might send them away, if he wished. And he no longer cared for any of them. It was over a year since his father had taken Eirik about with him; he no longer taught him anything, scarcely spoke to him. Nor did he take any notice of Cecilia. And his mother lay there, needing constant attention and unable to do the merest trifle of work. If his father ordered them all three to leave Hestviken, he would bring Torhild and her child hither in their stead.

  He had always remarked his mother’s dislike of Torhild and never thought about it. Now he saw—And hatred, of which hitherto he had known nothing, was born in the boy’s heart. He hated Torhild Björnsdatter, his cheeks turned white and he clenched his fists if he did but think of her. He took it into his head that one night he would steal up to Rundmyr and kill her, who would force his poor sick mother and all of them out of their home—drive his knife straight into her wicked, false heart.

  But his father, his father—Eirik stood as it were with two arrows in his hand, not knowing which to lay to his bow. Should he hate his father too—or love him even more than before, now that he was in danger of losing him? To Eirik, Olav had always appeared the most perfect being on earth—the man’s impatience, taciturnity, and coolness had made no impression on the child; he shook them from him as the sea-bird shakes off the water, and thought only of the times when his father had treated him differently. Above all when they had been out together without other company, in the forest or on the fiord, and his father had been the all-knowing, helpful being who warmed the child and gave him a feeling of security by his quiet good humour; but even at other times Eirik had often been able to feel that his father wished him well. And then there was that time when his father had to cut
off his poisoned finger, and thrust the red-hot iron into his own flesh to show his son there was nothing to be afraid of. To the boy this was such a shining deed that he did not remember it clearly—it dazzled him to think of it.

  Lose his father—Eirik turned to fire and ice with pain at the thought. Then he had dreams of doing something or other—a manly deed that would bring him fame. He imagined many things, but did not quite know which to choose. But when his father’s eyes were opened to the kind of son he had, when he saw that he was bringing up a lad of spirit—when Eirik had won his father’s heart, then he would say to him that he claimed an honourable position for his sister and himself, and his father should not send away his mother, were she never so sick and useless and in the way. But Torhild he should drive so far abroad that he need never more fear her coming with her child to claim their place.

  But even if his affection for his father was more lively than ever, his confidence and sense of security were gone; and now Eirik noticed this—that his father was not fond of him, although the man never corrected him now, scarcely paid heed to him.

  Olav hardly gave Eirik a thought now, only noticed with a vague relief that the boy was quieter than before, less in the way.

  Not to a living soul did Eirik so much as hint at the conflict of thoughts that possessed him.

  At last, one day in the course of spring, Olav stayed behind when the household went out after the morning meal—and then he said it:

  “’Tis likely you have heard—Torhild has a son—” he spoke in a low voice, which sounded husky.

  “I heard it—” With a painful effort she turned her head so far as to see a glimpse of her husband as he sat leaning back in the high seat. His face was white and patched with red, his eyes swollen and bloodshot. She guessed he had been weeping.

  She had not seen him thus in all these years, not when Audun died, not when she herself received the last sacraments, that time the women expected her to bleed to death. Only once before had she seen Olav weep.

  “What is it like?” whispered his wife—“Torhild’s child?”

  “Fair and shapely, they say.”

  “Have you not—seen—your son?”

  Olav shook his head. “I have not seen Torhild—not since she left us.”

  “But surely you will see it—?”

  “I can do no more than I have done—for her. I cannot amend the boy’s lot. And so—”

  Olav got up and crossed the room—was going out.

  Ingunn called to him: “What name has she given him?”

  “Björn.” Ingunn saw that his tears were about to overcome him again.

  “That was the name of your mother’s father.”

  “She can have had no thought of that. ’Twas her father’s name, you know.”

  Olav made as though he would bend over his wife, but then he turned abruptly and went out.

  She said no more to him till supper-time. From Liv she had heard that he had gone straight off to the smithy in the morning, and no one in the place had seen the master all day. He looked as if he had wept most of the time.

  Then came the night. Olav and Ingunn were left alone in the house—with Eirik, who was asleep against the wall in his father’s bed. The man tended the sick woman as he did all the other nights. Several times his wife saw that he was near bursting into tears again. And not a word did she dare to say—to him, who had now gotten a son, and who could never lead in his own son to sit beside him in the high seat in his ancestral manor. But what of Eirik—when she herself was no more—?

  Withal Ingunn had an obscure feeling that it was not only sorrow over his son that had so shattered Olav.

  The man himself was not thinking so much of his child. He wept chiefly over himself—it was as though he saw the last remnant of his honour and his pride lying crushed before his feet.

  Not till after Olav’s Mass had Olav Audunsson finished repairing the houses at Auken so far that Torhild Björnsdatter could move thither with her belongings. His house-carls were to carry her and her goods across the fiord. Olav himself had gone off south to Saltviken the day she was to move.

  Ingunn lay listening—she had had both doors thrown open to the yard. She heard the coming of the pack-horses, the hoof-beats on the rock. Then the cow-bell, the tripping of little hoofs—the children, Rannveig and Kaare, ran about, driving and keeping together their flock of sheep and goats.

  Liv stood at the outer door, sniffing and making game of the procession. “Torhild takes the lower path along the creek,” announced the maid, buzzing with excitement. “To bring her whoreson among the houses here—that’s more than even she has a mind to.”

  “Hush, Liv!” whispered Ingunn, breathing rapidly. “Run down to her—bid her—ask if she will—tell her I would so fain have a sight of her child.”

  A moment later Eirik dashed in hurriedly. His narrow, swarthy face was burning—his yellow eyes sparkled with indignation:

  “Mother! Now she is coming hither! Shall I drive her off? We must not let the filthy hell-sow drag her bastard in here!”

  “Eirik, Eirik!” His mother called to him in a wail, stretching out her thin, yellow hand. “For God’s mercy’s sake, say not such ugly words. ’Tis a sin to scoff at a poor creature and call her bad names.”

  He was so tall now, her boy, slender as a reed and slight of build. Angrily he tossed his shapely head with its black curls.

  “It is I who sent for her,” whispered Ingunn.

  The boy frowned and turned on his heel; then he went and flung himself down on the edge of the north bed, sat there staring with an angry, scornful smile as Torhild entered.

  The girl came forward with bent head—she had bound up her hair under a coarse, tight-drawn coif—but her back was as straight as ever. She carried a bundle in her arms, wrapped in a kerchief with a red and white border. It was strange to see that she bore herself with all her old dignity and calm, even as she appeared before Olav’s wife, humble and sorrowful.

  The women greeted each other, and Ingunn remarked that Torhild would have good weather for the passage across. Torhild agreed.

  “I had so great a mind to see your boy,” whispered Ingunn shyly. “You must do me the kindness to let me see him. You must lay him down here before me; you know I cannot raise myself,” she said as Torhild held out the bundle. Then the girl laid the child down on the bed before the mistress.

  With trembling hands Ingunn undid the kerchief that was wrapped about it. The boy was awake—he lay staring, at nothing in particular, with big blue eyes; a little smile, as it were a reflection of a light none but himself could see, hovered about the toothless, milky mouth. A fine, fair down curled from under the border of his cap.

  “He is big?” asked Ingunn—“for his age—three months, is it not?”

  “He will be three months by Laurence Mass.” 9

  “And fair he is. He is like my Cecilia, methinks?”

  Torhild stood silent, looking down at her child. There was no great change to be seen in the housekeeper—though in some way she had grown younger and fairer. It was not only that her figure seemed yet more shapely: she was broad-shouldered and had always been high-bosomed, with a chest as deep and broad as a man’s. But now her full, firm breast looked as if it would burst her kirtle, and this made her seem slighter in the waist. But it was not that alone—her grey, bold-featured face had softened as it were and become younger.

  “He has no look of knowing what hunger is, this fellow,” said Ingunn.

  “Nay—I thank God,” replied Torhild quietly; “he knows not what it is—and with His help he shall never know it either, so long as I am alive.”

  “You may be sure Olav will see to it that the boy shall never lack aught, even if you be taken from him,” said Ingunn in a low voice.

  “That I know full surely.”

  Torhild threw the cloth over her child again and lifted him in her arms. Ingunn held out her hand in farewell—Torhild bent deeply over it and kissed it.

/>   Then Ingunn burst out—she could not keep back the words:

  “So in the end you got your old desire fulfilled, Torhild!”

  Torhild replied calmly and with a mournful air: “I tell you, Ingunn—as truly as I hope in Christ and Mary Virgin for mercy for myself and this my child—I do not believe, mistress, that I ever desired to deceive you—and he, your husband, never desired it, as you must know—but it came about nevertheless—”

  Ingunn said bitterly: “Nevertheless I have seen it, years before I lost my health, what thoughts you had of Olav—you liked him better than all beside—and that has been so for more than three years or four—”

  “Ay, from the time I knew him first I have liked him best of all.”

  She bowed stiffly and went out.

  Eirik started up, spat after the woman, and swore.

  His mother called to him, in a hushed and frightened voice. “Eirik mine, be not so sinful—never say those ugly words of any mother’s child,” she begged him, bursting into tears and trying to draw the boy to her. But he wrested himself from her and dashed out of the door.

  9 August 10.

  15

  NEVERTHELESS it overtook Olav as something quite unexpected when the end came.

  The winter following the misfortune with Torhild Björnsdatter passed like the two that preceded it. Everyone marvelled that life still clung to Ingunn Steinfinnsdatter—it was more than two years since she had been able to take dry food. She had bed-sores now, and in spite of all Olav’s efforts they grew worse. She herself felt little of the sores, except those under her shoulders; they sometimes burned like fire. She always had to have linen cloths under her, and although Olav smeared the places where the skin was broken thickly with grease, the linen often clung fast to the sores, and then it was pitiful to see her torments. But she complained wonderfully little.

  One morning Olav had carried her over to his own bed, and while Liv spread clean skins and linen on hers, he tended her back; he had laid her on her side. He was dizzy with fatigue and sickened by the bad smell there was now in the room. Suddenly he bent over his wife and cautiously touched with his lips the moist, open sores on her thin shoulder-blades; he had recalled something he had heard—of holy men who kissed the sores before they bound up the lepers whom they tended. But then this was the other way about: it was he who was the leper, though he seemed clean and sound outside—and she must indeed be washed clean now, who had borne the torments of all these years meekly and without complaint.