Kristin Lavransdatter

by Sigrid Undset

  She fully expected the house to be locked, but the door opened when she touched the handle. Erlend hadn’t even latched the door to his dwelling.

  An unbearable stench met her as she stepped inside: the rank and pungent smell of hides and a stable. The first feeling that came over her as she stood in his house was a deep remorse and pity. This place seemed to her more like an animal’s lair.

  Oh yes, yes, yes, Simon—you were right!

  It was a small house, but it had been beautifully and carefully built. The fireplace even had a brick chimney so that it wouldn’t fill the room with smoke, as the hearths did in the high loft room back home. But when she tried to open the damper to air out the foul smell a bit, she saw that the chimney had been closed off with several flat rocks. The glass pane in the window facing the gallery was broken and stuffed with rags. The room had a wooden floor, but it was so filthy that the floorboards were barely visible. There were no cushions on the benches, but weapons, hides, and old clothing were strewn about everywhere. Scraps of food littered the dirty table. And the flies buzzed high and low.

  She gave a start and stood there trembling, unable to breathe, her heart pounding. In that bed over there, in the bed where that thing had lain when she was here last . . . Something was lying there now, covered with a length of homespun. She wasn’t sure what she thought. . . .

  Then she clenched her teeth and forced herself to go over and lift up the cloth. It was only Erlend’s armor, with his helmet and shield. They were lying on the bare boards of the bed, covered up.

  She glanced at the other bed. That’s where they had found Bjørn and Aashild. That’s where Erlend now slept. No doubt she too would sleep there in the night.

  How must it have been for him to live in this house, to sleep here? Once again all her other feelings were drowned in pity. She went over to the bed; it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. The straw under the hide sheet had been pressed down until it was quite hard. There was nothing else but a few sheepskin blankets and a couple of pillows covered with homespun, so filthy that they stank. Dust and dirt scattered as she touched the bedding. Erlend’s bed was no better than that of a stableboy in a stall.

  Erlend, who could never have enough splendor around him. Erlend, who would put on silk shirts, velvet, and fine furs if he could find the slightest excuse to do so; who resented having to let his children wear handwoven homespun on workdays; and who had never liked it when she nursed them herself or lent her maids a hand with the housework—like a leaseholder’s wife, he said.

  Jesus, but he had brought this upon himself.

  No, I won’t say a word. I will take back everything I said, Simon. You were right. He must not stay here . . . the father of my sons. I will offer him my hand and my lips and ask his forgiveness.

  This isn’t easy, Simon. But you were right. She remembered his sharp gray eyes, his gaze just as steadfast, almost to the very end. In that wretched body which had begun to decay, his pure, bright spirit had shone from his eyes until his soul was drawn home, the way a blade is pulled back. She knew it was as Ramborg had said. He had loved her all these years.

  Every single day in the months since his death she couldn’t help thinking about him, and now she saw that she had realized it even before Ramborg spoke. During this time she had been forced to mull over all the memories she had of him, for as far back as she had known Simon Darre. In all these years she had carried false memories of this man who had once been her betrothed; she had tampered with these memories the way a corrupt ruler tampers with the coin and mixes impure ore with the silver. When he released her and took upon himself the blame for the breach of promise, she told herself, and believed it, that Simon Andressøn had turned away from her with contempt as soon as he realized that her honor had been disgraced. She had forgotten that when he let her go, on that day in the nuns’ garden, he was certainly not thinking that she was no longer innocent or pure. Even back then he was willing to bear the shame for her inconstant and disobedient disposition; all he asked was that her father should be told that he was not the one who sought to break the agreement.

  And there was something else she now knew. When he had learned the worst about her, he stood up to redeem for her a scrap of honor in the eyes of the world. If she could have given her heart to him then, Simon would have still taken her as his wife before the church door, and he would have tried to live with her so she would never feel that he concealed a memory of her shame.

  But she still knew that she could never have loved him. She could never have loved Simon Andressøn. And yet . . . Everything that had enraged her about Erlend because he didn’t have particular traits—those were the traits that Simon did possess. But she was a pitiful woman who couldn’t help complaining.

  Simon had given selflessly to the one he loved; no doubt she had believed that she did the same.

  But when she received his gifts, without thought or thanks, Simon had merely smiled. Now she realized that he had often been melancholy when they were together. She now knew that he had concealed sorrow behind his strangely impassive demeanor. Then he would toss out some impertinent jest and push it aside, as ready as ever to protect and to help and to give.

  She herself had raged, storing away and brooding over every grief, whenever she offered her gifts and Erlend paid them no mind.

  Here, in this very room, she had stood and pronounced such bold words: “I was the one who took the wrong path, and I won’t complain about Erlend even if it leads me out over the scree.” That was what she had said to the woman whom she drove to her death in order to make room for her own love.

  Kristin moaned aloud, clasped her hands before her breast, and stood there, rocking back and forth. Yes, she had said so proudly that she would not complain about Erlend Nikulaussøn if he grew tired of her, betrayed her, or even left her.

  Yes, but if that was what Erlend had done . . . She thought she would have been able to stand it. If he had betrayed her once, and that had been the end of it. But he hadn’t betrayed her; he had merely failed her again and again and made her life full of anguish and uncertainty. No, he had never betrayed her, nor had he ever made her feel secure. And she could see no end to it all. Here she stood now, about to beg him to come back, to fill her goblet each day with uncertainty and unrest, with expectations, with longings and fear and hope that would be shattered.

  She felt now as if he had worn her out. She had neither the youth nor the courage to live with him any longer, and she would probably never grow so old that Erlend couldn’t play with her heart. Not young enough to have the strength to live with him; not old enough to have patience with him. She had become a miserable woman; no doubt that was what she had always been. Simon was right.

  Simon . . . and her father. They had held on to their loyal love for her, even as she trampled on them for the sake of this man whom she no longer had the strength to endure.

  Oh, Simon. I know that never for a minute did you wish vengeance upon me. But I wonder, Simon, if you know in your grave, that now you have been avenged after all.

  No, she couldn’t bear it any longer; she would have to find something to do. She made up the bed and looked for a dishrag and broom, but they were not to be found anywhere. She glanced into the alcove; now she understood why it smelled like a stable. Erlend had made a stall for his horse in there. But it had been mucked out and cleaned. His saddle and harness, which hung on the wall, were well cared for and oiled, with all the torn pieces mended.

  Compassion once more washed away all other thoughts. Did he keep Soten inside because he couldn’t bear to be alone in the house?

  Kristin heard a sound out on the gallery. She stepped over to the window. It was covered with dust and cobwebs, but she thought she caught a glimpse of a woman. She pulled the rag from the hole and peeked out. A woman was setting down a pail of milk and a small cheese out there. She was middle-aged and lame and wore ugly, tattered clothes. Kristin herself was hardly aware of how much easier she breathed.
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  She tidied up the room as best she could. She found the inscription that Bjørn Gunnarssøn had carved into a timber of the wall. It was in Latin, so she couldn’t decipher the whole thing, but he called himself both Dominus and Miles, and she read the name of his ancestral estate in Elve County, which he had lost because of Aashild Gautesdatter. In the midst of the splendid carvings on the high seat was his coat of arms with its unicorn and water lilies.

  A short time later Kristin heard a horse somewhere outside. She went over to the entryway and peered out.

  From the leafy forest across from the farm a tall black stallion emerged, pulling a load of firewood. Erlend walked alongside to guide him. A dog was perched on top of the wood, and several more dogs were running around the sled.

  Soten, the Castilian, strained against the harness and pulled the sledful of wood across the grassy courtyard. One of the dogs began barking as it crossed the green. Erlend, who had begun to unfasten the harnesses, noticed from all the dogs that something must be wrong. He took his axe from the load of wood and walked toward the house.

  Kristin fled back inside, letting the door fall shut behind her. She crept over to the fireplace and stood there, trembling and waiting.

  Erlend stepped inside with his axe in hand and the dogs milling around him on the threshold. They found the intruder at once and began barking furiously.

  The first thing she noticed was the rush of blood that flooded his face, so youthful and red. The quick tremor on his fine, soft lips, and his big, deep-set eyes beneath the shadow of his brows.

  The sight of him took her breath away. No doubt she saw the old stubble of beard on the lower half of his face, and she saw that his disheveled hair was iron gray. But the color that came and went so swiftly in his cheeks, the way it had when they were young . . . He was just as young and handsome; it was as if nothing had been able to break him.

  He was poorly clad. His blue shirt was filthy and tattered; over it he wore a leather vest, scratched and scraped and torn around the eyelets, but it fit snugly and followed pliantly the graceful, strong movements of his body. His tight leather hose was torn at one knee, and the seam was split on the back of the other leg. And yet he had never looked more like the descendant of chieftains and noblemen than he did now. With such calm dignity he carried his slender body with the wide, rather sloping shoulders and the long, elegant limbs. He stood there, his weight resting slightly on one foot, one hand stuck in the belt around his slim waist, the other holding the axe at his side.

  He had called the dogs back, and now he stood staring at her, turning red and pale and not saying a word. For a good long time they both were silent. Finally the man spoke, his voice a little uncertain. “So you’ve come here, Kristin?”

  “I wanted to see how you were doing up here,” she replied.

  “Well, now you’ve seen it.” He glanced around the room. “You can see that I’m tolerably comfortable here; it’s good that you happened to come by on a day when everything was tidied up so nicely.” He noticed the shadow of a smile on her face. “Or perhaps you’re the one who has been cleaning up,” he said, laughing softly.

  Erlend put down his axe and sat on the outer bench with his back leaning against the table. All of a sudden he grew somber. “You’re standing there so . . . there’s nothing wrong back home, is there? At Jørundgaard, I mean? With the boys?”

  “No.” Now she had the chance to present her purpose. “Our sons are thriving and show great promise. But they long so much for you, Erlend. It was my intention . . . I’ve come here, husband, to ask you to return home to us. We all miss you.” She lowered her eyes.

  “You look well, Kristin.” Erlend gazed at her with a little smile.

  Kristin stood there, red-faced, as if he had struck a blow to her ear.

  “That’s not why—”

  “No, I know it’s not because you think you’re too young and fresh to be left a widow,” Erlend said when she broke off. “I don’t think any good would come of it if I returned home, Kristin,” he added in a more serious tone. “In your hands everything is flourishing at Jørundgaard; I know that. You have good fortune with all your undertakings. And I am quite content with my situation here.”

  “The boys aren’t happy that we . . . are quarreling,” she replied softly.

  “Oh . . .” Erlend hesitated. “They’re so young. I don’t think they take it so hard that they won’t forget about it when it’s time for them to leave their childhood behind. I might as well tell you,” he added with a little smile, “that I see them from time to time.”

  She knew about this, but she felt humiliated by his words, and it seemed as if that was his intention, since he thought she didn’t know. Her sons had never realized that she knew. But she replied somberly, “Then you also know that many things at Jørundgaard are not as they should be.”

  “We never talk about such matters,” he said with the same smile. “We go hunting together. But you must be hungry and thirsty.” He jumped up. “And here you stand . . . No, sit down in the high seat, Kristin. Yes, sit there, my dear. I won’t crowd in next to you.”

  He brought in the milk and cheese and found some bread, butter, and dried meat. Kristin was hungry and quite thirsty, but she had trouble swallowing her food. Erlend ate in a hasty and careless manner, as had always been his custom when not among guests, and he was soon finished.

  He talked about himself. The people who lived at the foot of the hill worked his land and brought him milk and a little food; otherwise he went into the mountains to hunt and fish. But then he mentioned that he was actually thinking about leaving the country, to seek service with some foreign warlord.

  “Oh no, Erlend!”

  He gave her a swift, searching glance. But she said no more. The light was growing dim in the room. Her face and wimple shone white against the dark wall. Erlend stood up and stoked the fire in the hearth. Then he straddled the outer bench and turned to face her; the red glow of the fire flickered over his body.

  To think that he would even consider such a thing. He was almost as old as her father had been when he died. But it was all too likely that he would do it one day: take off on some whim, in search of new adventures.

  “Don’t you think it’s enough?” said his wife heatedly. “Enough that you fled the village, leaving me and your sons behind? Do you have to flee the country to leave us too?”

  “If I’d known what you thought of me, Kristin,” said Erlend gravely, “I would have left your estate much sooner! But I now see that you’ve had to bear a great deal because of me.”

  “You know quite well, Erlend . . . You say my estate, but you have the rights of a husband over all that is mine.” She herself could hear how weak her voice sounded.

  “Yes,” replied Erlend. “But I know I was a poor master over what I owned myself.” He fell silent for a moment. “Naakkve . . . I remember the time before he was born, and you spoke of the child you were carrying, who would take my high seat after me. I now see, Kristin, that it was hard for you. It’s best if things stay as they are. And I’m content with my life up here.”

  Kristin shuddered as she glanced around at the room in the fading light. Shadows now filled every cranny, and the glow from the flames danced.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, on the verge of collapse, “how you can bear this house. You have nothing to occupy your time, and you’re all alone. I think you could at least take on a workman.”

  “You mean that I should run the farm myself?” Erlend laughed. “Oh no, Kristin, you know I’m ill suited to be a farmer. I can never sit still.”

  “Sit still . . . But surely you’re sitting still here . . . during the long winter.”

  Erlend smiled to himself; his eyes had an odd, remote look to them.

  “Yes, in some sense you’re right. When I don’t have to think about anything but whatever happens to cross my mind and can come and go as I like. And you know that I’ve always been the kind of person who can fall asleep if
there’s nothing to keep watch over; I sleep like a hibernating bear whenever the weather isn’t good enough to go into the mountains.”

  “Aren’t you ever afraid to be here alone?” whispered Kristin.

  At first he gave her a look of incomprehension. Then he laughed. “Because people say this place is haunted? I’ve never noticed anything. Sometimes I’ve wished that my kinsman Bjørn would pay me a visit. Do you remember that he once said he didn’t think I’d be able to stand to feel the edge of a blade at my throat? I’d like to tell him now that I wasn’t particularly frightened when I had the rope around my neck.”

  A long shiver rippled through Kristin’s body. She sat without saying a word.

  Erlend stood up. “It must be time for us to go to bed now, Kristin.”

  Stiff and cold, she watched Erlend remove the coverlet from his armor, spread it over the bed, and tuck it around the dirty pillows. “This is the best I have,” he said.

  “Erlend!” She clasped her hands under her breast. She searched for something to say, to win a little more time; she was so frightened. Then she remembered the promise she had made.

  “Erlend, I have a message to give you. Simon asked me, when he was near the end, to bring you his greetings. Every single day he regretted the words he spoke to you when you last parted. ‘Un manly’ he called them, and he asked you to forgive him.”

  “Simon.” Erlend was standing with one hand on the bedpost; he lowered his eyes. “He’s the one man I would least like to be reminded of.”

  “I don’t know what came between the two of you,” said Kristin. She thought Erlend’s words remarkably heartless. “But it would be strange, and unlike Simon, if things were as he said, that he did not treat you justly. Surely he wasn’t entirely to blame if this is true.”

  Erlend shook his head. “He stood by me like a brother when I was in need,” he said in a low voice. “And I accepted his help and his friendship, and I never realized that it had always been difficult for him to tolerate me.