The Axe

by Sigrid Undset

  At the gate of the paddock Ingunn stopped and set the stakes in after her. There was not a sound in the summer night but the grating of the corncrake. Dew dripped from the alders on the path by the burn and there was a bitter scent of leaves and grass in the darkness of the thicket.

  The grove went right down to the manor hard. And now Ingunn saw that the lake had risen greatly while she had been lying in. The water came over the turf and covered the shore end of the pier.

  She stopped, uncertain—in an instant terror quickened within her and shattered her hardened resolve. Nay, for this she had no heart—wade through the water out to the pier. She wailed helplessly in her fear. Then she lifted up her dress and put one foot into the water.

  Her heart seemed to thrust itself into her throat as she felt the chill water running into her shoe; she gasped and swallowed. But then she ran on, wading through her own fear, tottering unsteadily over the sharp stones of the beach. The water splashed and gurgled about her with a deafening noise as she went forward. Her foot reached the pier.

  It was flooded for a good way out; the plank bent between the piles, it gave under her feet, and the water came far up her legs. Farther out the planks were just above the surface, but sank under as soon as she stepped on them. Each time she held her breath in fear of losing her foothold and falling into the lake. At last she reached the extreme end of the pier; it was clear of the surface.

  There was nothing left of her callousness now—she was beside herself with fright. But her trembling hands busied themselves blindly with what she had thought out beforehand. She took off the long woven girdle that was wound thrice about her waist, drew her knife, and cut it in two. With one piece she bound her clothes together around her legs below the knees—that she might appear seemly if she should drift ashore. The other piece she tied crosswise over her bosom and slipped her hands underneath—she had thought that it might be over sooner if she did not struggle as she sank. Then she drew a last, long breath and threw herself in.

  Arnvid half woke, lay in a doze, and was on the point of dropping off to sleep again when, with a dull thump of the heart, he started up, wide awake—and knew that what had half awakened him was that he had heard someone go out.

  He was on the floor in an instant and over by her bed, fumbling in the dark. The couch was still warm, but empty. As though still distrusting his own senses he searched on, along the logs of the wall, the head of the bed, the foot-Then he thrust his naked feet into his shoes, slipped his kirtle over his head, groaning the while—he did not even know how long it was since she had gone out. He set out at a run straight through the corn and came down into the meadow that led to the lake—there was someone on the pier, he made out. He ran across the meadow and heard his own footfalls thudding on the dry turf. On reaching the water’s edge he ran on, wading until he could strike out and swim.

  Ingunn awoke in her old bed in Aasa’s house. At first she was aware of nothing but that her head ached as though it would burst and the skin of her whole body was as sore as if she had been scalded.

  The sunshine poured in; the louver was open and she had a glimpse of the clear sky. The smoke, which showed blue under the ridge of the roof, turned brown in the bright air outside—it was caught at once by the breeze and whirled among the grass on the roof.

  Then she remembered—and fell almost into a faint. The feeling of relief, of being saved, was so overpowering—

  Arnvid came up at once from somewhere in the room. He supported her with one arm and put a wooden cup to her lips. There was tepid water-gruel in it, with a flavour of herbs and honey.

  Ingunn drank every drop, keeping her eyes on him over the rim of the cup. He took it from her and put it on the floor, then seated himself on the step beside the bed with his hands hanging between his knees and his bead bowed. It was as though both were overcome by a sore sense of shame.

  At last Ingunn asked in a hushed voice: “I cannot think—how was it I was saved?”

  “I came at the last moment,” said Arnvid shortly.

  “I cannot tell,” she began again. “I am so stiff in all my limbs—”

  “Today is the third day. You have lain in a swoon—’twas the milk went to your head, I wis—and you had grown so cold in the water, we had to pour hot ale and wine into you. You have been awake before this, but haply you do not remember—”

  The bad taste in her mouth seemed worse than before and she asked for water. Arnvid went out for it.

  As she drank, he stood and watched her. He had so much at heart that he knew not what to take first. So he said it without more ado: “Olav is here—he came yesterday in the afternoon—”

  Ingunn gave way, sick and dazed. She felt herself sinking down and down—but deep within her there was a little spark that was alive and tried to catch and break into flames—joy, hope, the will to live, meaningless as it was.

  “He was in here for a while last night. And he bade us tell him as soon as you were awake. Shall I go and fetch him now?—the others are in the hall—’tis breakfast-time—”

  After a moment Ingunn asked, trembling: “Said Olav aught—have you told him—of this last?”

  Arnvid’s face contracted suddenly—he set his teeth in his lower lip. Then it burst out of him: “Had you no thought—have you no thought, Ingunn, of where you would be dwelling today if you had carried out your purpose?”

  “Ay,” she whispered. She turned her face to the wall and asked in a low voice: “Did Olav say that? What said he, Arnvid?”

  “He has said naught of that.”

  After a while Arnvid asked: “Shall I bring Olav in now?”

  “Oh nay, nay—wait a little. I will not lie here—I will sit up—”

  “Then I must send in one of the women—you have scarce the strength to dress yourself?” asked Arnvid doubtfully.

  “Not Tora or Magnhild,” Ingunn begged.

  Then she sat on the bench by the end wall and waited. She had put on her black cloak, without really knowing why she did so; and she held it tightly about her and drew the hood over her head. She was white and cold in the face with fear. When the door opened—she had a glimpse of the man stooping as he came in—she shut her eyes again and her head sank on her breast. She planted her feet hard against the floor and held on to the edge of the bench with both hands to master her trembling.

  He stopped when he had passed the hearth. Ingunn dared not raise her eyes; she saw only the man’s legs. He wore no shoes, but tight-fitting buff leather hose, split and laced over the instep—she fixed her eyes upon this lacing, as though it would save her from her crowding thoughts. Such a fashion of men’s hose she had never seen before, but it was cunning—they could thus be made to fit the ankle like a mould.

  “Good day, Ingunn.”

  His voice went through her like a thrust, she sank yet farther forward. Olav came on, now he was standing just before her. She saw the hem of his coat; it was light blue, came down to the knees, and had many folds—her eyes stole upward as high as to his belt. It was mounted with the same silver roses and the buckle with Saint Olav’s image; he had a dagger with an elk-horn sheath and silver mountings.

  Then she saw that he was standing with outstretched hand. She laid her thin, clammy hand in it, and his closed about it—his hand was rough and dry and warm. Quickly she drews hers back.

  “Will you not look up, Ingunn?”

  She felt that she ought to rise up and greet him.

  “Nay, sit still,” he said quickly.

  Then she looked up; their eyes met, and they continued gazing into each other’s face.

  Olav felt all his blood being sucked back to his heart—his face was frozen and stiff. He had to set his teeth; his eyelids drooped half over his eyes and he could not raise them again. Never had he known that a man could be struck so powerless.

  The boundless pain and distress in her poor eyes—it was that which drew his soul naked up into the light. Away went all that he had thought and determined—he knew righ
t well that they were great and important things that now dropped from his mind, but he had not the power to hold them fast. He was left with the last, the inmost cruel certainty—that she was flesh of his flesh and life of his life, and this could never be otherwise, were she never so shamefully maltreated and broken. The roots of their lives had been intertwined as long as he could remember—and when he saw that death had had hold of her with both hands, he felt as though he himself had barely escaped from being torn to pieces. And a longing came over him, so intense that it shook him through and through—to take her in his arms and crush her to him, to hide himself with her.

  “Perhaps you will grant me leave to sit down too?”—he felt so strangely weak in the knees. Then he seated himself on the bench, at a little distance from her.

  Ingunn’s trembling increased. His face had been hard as stone—grey around the bloodless lips, and his strangely bright blue-green eyes had stared sightlessly under the drooping lids. “O God, God, have mercy upon me—!” As yet, she thought, she had not fully guessed the extent of the misfortune she had caused—but now she was to know it; she read that in Olav’s face of stone. Now, when she could bear no more, came the worst.

  Olav glanced at her under his half-closed lids. “You need not be afraid of me, Ingunn.” He spoke calmly and evenly, but there was a slight hoarseness in his voice, as though his throat was not quite clear. “You must not think any more of what I said when I was here last—that I might prove a hard man to you. When I said it, I was still—wild—about this. But now I have bethought myself, and you must not be afraid. You shall live at ease in Hestviken, so far as depends on me.”

  Ingunn said, in a low, despairing voice: “Olav, you cannot—We cannot dwell together in Hestviken after this? How will you live there with me, remembering every day—”

  “If I must, I can,” he said shortly. “There is no help for it, Ingunn. And never shall you be reminded of it by me. That you may depend upon—safely.”

  Ingunn said: “But you are not one who forgets easily, Olav. Oh—! Do you think you could do aught else but remember, every night when you lay down by my side, that another—”

  “Ay—” he broke in. “Then you must remember,” he went on, calmly as before, “Hestviken is a long way off—farther than you think. You will see, Ingunn, that it may be easier for us than we believe, when we live so far away from the places where all this has befallen us.—You will never see any sign in me that I remember it,” he added hotly.

  Ingunn said: “Olav, I am crushed and broken.—And if it be true that there is no way at all of setting you free, now that I have disgraced myself—But I do not see that it can be so, since they said once that they could part us, though we had been betrothed since we were children and we had slept in each other’s arms—”

  “I have never asked if I could wriggle out of my marriage. In all these years I have counted myself bound and been content that it was so, and I am still content. Such was my father’s will. I am not one who forgets easily, you say—no, but I cannot forget this either, that we were betrothed to each other by our fathers when we were so young—and as we grew up together we slept in one bed and ate of one dish, and most of what we owned was in common. And when we were grown up, it was with us as you said.—There may be many things for which I must answer before God’s judgment-seat,” he said in a very low tone; “so I may well forgive you!”

  “That is handsome of you, Olav, and it is good to know it. But now I will ask you to wait a year and meanwhile to let this matter rest. I am weary and sick, maybe I shall not live so long. Then you will be glad that you can take a wife to whom no blemish clings—that no woman without honour has ever been mistress of your house, or brought shame on your bed and board.”

  “Be quiet,” whispered Olav huskily. “Speak not of that. When they told me what you had tried to do—” he stopped, overcome.

  “I shall scarce have the strength to go to such a deed another time,” she said; a quiver, a sort of smile, passed over her face. “I shall be a pious woman now, Olav, and repent my sins for such time as God wills I shall live. But I believe it will not be long—I believe I bear death within me already.”

  “You believe that because you are not yet over your sickness,” said Olav sharply.

  “Tainted I am,” she wailed—“faded. I have lost all my fairness, so say they all. Little skill have I had all my days, and now I have lost heart and strength—what profit or joy can you have of such a wife as I? You have sat here and never looked at me once,” she whispered shyly. “I am not much to look at, I know that. And ’tis no wonder you are unwilling to come near me. Think of it, Olav—you would soon feel it unbearable if you had such a wretched wife by your side day and night, always—”

  Olav’s features grew yet stiffer; he shook his head.

  “I marked it already when you came in,” she whispered almost inaudibly, “and you did not greet me with a kiss—”

  At last Olav turned his head slightly and looked at her with a melancholy smile. “I kissed you last night—more than once—but I trow you did not feel it.”

  He passed both hands over his face, then bent forward, with both elbows on his thighs, and rested his chin in his hands.

  “I dreamed a dream last spring—’twas Good Friday night to boot—I have thought of it often since. I remembered it so clearly when I awoke, and afterwards I have not been able to forget it. Now I will tell you what manner of dream this was.

  “I dreamed I was on a hill in the forest, where all the trees were cut down, so that there was no shade—ay, the ground was hot there, and you lay in the full blaze of the sun, on the heather—there was heather and cranberries all around the stumps. You lay still—I know not whether I thought you slept—

  “ ’Tis strange—in all these years I have roamed about the world I often wished you would show yourself to me in dreams. You know that there are means one can use if one would dream of one’s dearest friend—many a time I tried them, though you know I have never had a very firm belief in such devices. But I used them many times while I was still in Denmark, and also since. But I never saw you—

  “But I dreamed this dream on Good Friday night, and I saw you as clearly as you are sitting there. You still seemed a child; we were both children, methought, as when we were together at Frettastein. Your hair had come unplaited, and you had on your old red gown of wadmal, but it had rucked up and I saw your legs bare to the knee—you were barefooted—

  “Then a viper darted out of the heather—”

  Olav drew a few heavy breaths; then he went on: “I was so affrighted that I could not move. And this seemed strange, for I am bold to say that if only I can see the danger, I am not easily frightened—but in this dream I felt a terror beyond bearing—when I think of it, it seems I have never known what terror was, before or since. The snake moved through the heather, and I guessed it would strike you.

  “But it did not move all the time after the manner of vipers; sometimes it thrust its way along as caterpillars do, and then it was no serpent, but a fat, hairy caterpillar—but then it was a viper again, coiling in the grass. It seemed to me I had a knife in my hand, and I thought I would strike the snake over the neck with a stick and kill it—’twould be easily done. But I dared not, for it turned into a caterpillar again.—Do you remember how I was a boy—how unspeakably I loathed the sight of worms and caterpillars, and maggots worst of all? I strove to hide it, but I know that you saw it.”

  Again he passed his hands over his face and breathed deeply.

  “Ay, I stood there as though stunned. And then the snake lay about your foot, and now it was a viper, and it coiled about your calf, but you slept on as soundly as before. And then the snake raised its head and darted hither and thither in the air and flickered with its tongue. Now I know not what I shall say—there was a horror in it, yet I was drawn to look upon it; nay, it was as though I waited with delight for it to strike.—I saw that now I could easily take it by the neck, but I dare
d not. And—and—I saw that it was seeking out the place, on your instep, where it could set its teeth in deep.—But I felt—pleasure—in looking on at this. And then it struck—”

  He stopped abruptly, with closed eyes, and bit his lip.

  “Then I awoke.” Olav strove to speak calmly, but his voice was thick. “And I lay and was angry with myself, as you know one often is when one has behaved in a dream as one would never do awake. For, you know, then I should have killed the snake. And I ween I would never have stood idly and watched my worst enemy asleep if a viper crept upon him, nor would I have thought it any delight to see it strike.—But there were not many things in the world, I wis, that I would not have done for you, when we were children.

  “And I have thought and thought upon this dream—”

  Again he broke off abruptly—sprang up and staggered a few steps away from her. Then he turned to the wall and threw himself against it, with his arms raised in a cross and his head buried between them.

  Ingunn rose and stood as though thunderstruck. Something was happening that she had never dreamed possible. Olav was weeping—it was as though she had never thought he could.

  The man sobbed aloud—strange rough and raw noises were torn from his chest. He made a great effort and forced himself to silence; but his back quivered, his whole frame was shaken. Then his tears broke out again—at first in little gasping spasms, then another storm of harrowing sobs. He stood with one knee on the bench, his forehead against the wall, and wept as if he could never cease.

  Ingunn stole up, beside herself with terror, and stood behind him. At last she touched his shoulder.—Then he turned round to her, threw his arms about her, and crushed her to him. They sank into each other’s arms as though both seeking support, and their lips, open and distorted with weeping, met in a kiss.