The Snake Pit

by Sigrid Undset

  Olav protested that he could well find his own way through the forest in Skeidissokn, and Lavrans must not think of riding from home so late at night for his sake in this cold. But his host was quick to reply that, as it had not snowed properly for so long, the forest was full of old trails; a man must be well acquainted with the paths by Gerdarud to find the shortest way. And as for a night out of doors—nay, he made nothing of that.

  Outside in the courtyard a groom held two fresh horses, fine, active animals. An excellent horseman was this young squire, and he had the best of horses. Olav was secretly vexed that he had to be given a hand in mounting—it was these boots that were far too big.

  The road lay through forest most of the time, and the thin coating of snow was frozen hard and broken in every direction by old, worn tracks of ski-runners, horsemen, and sledges—and the moon could not be expected for an hour yet. Olav guessed that he might have strayed far and wide ere he had found his way out of these woods alone.

  At last they came through some small coppices and saw Skeidis church ahead of them on the level. The moon, rather less than full, had just risen and hung low above the hills in the north-east. In the slanting, uncertain moonbeams the plain was raked with shadows, for the snow had been blown into drifts with bare patches of glimmering crust between; all at once Olav recalled the night when he fled to Sweden—more than twenty years ago. It must have been the waning moon that reminded him—then too he had had to wait for moonrise and had started at about this time of night, he remembered now.

  He told his guide that from here he was well acquainted with the roads southward, thanking Lavrans for his help and promising to send the horse north again at the first opportunity.

  “Ay, ay—God help you, Master Olav—may you find it better at home than you look for.—Farewell!”

  Olav remained halted until the sound of the other’s horse had died away in the night. Then he turned into the road that bore south and west. It was fairly level here, and the road was well worn and good for long stretches; he could ride fast. It was not far now from farm to farm.

  The moon rose higher, quenching the smaller stars, and its greenish light began to flood the firmament and spread over the white fields and the grey forest; the shadows shrank and grew small.

  Once the crowing of a cock rang out through the moonlight; it was answered from farms far away, and Olav became aware how still the night was. Not a dog barked in any of the farms, no animal called, there was not a sound but that of his own horse’s hoofs, as he rode in solitude.

  And again it was as though he were rapt away to another world. All life and all warmth had sunk down, lay in the bonds of frost and sleep like the swallows at the bottom of a lake in wintertime. Alone he journeyed through a realm of death, over which the cold and the moonlight threw a vast, echoing vault, but from the depths the Voice resounded within him, incessantly:

  O vos omnes, qui transitis per viam, attendue, et videte, si est dolor si cut dolor meus!

  Bow down, bow down, yield himself and lay his life in those pierced hands as a vanquished man yields his sword into the hands of the victorious knight. In this last year, since he had turned adulterer, he had always refused to think of God’s mercy—it would be unmanly and dishonourable to look for it now. So long had he feared and fled from the justice of men—should he pray for mercy now, when his case had grown so old that perhaps he would be spared paying the full price of it among men? Something old him that, having evaded men’s justice, he must be honest enough not to try to elude the judgment of God.

  But tonight, as he journeyed under the winter moon like one who has been snatched out of time and life, on the very shore of eternity, he saw the truth of what he had been told in childhood: that the sin above all sins is to despair of God’s mercy. To deny that heart which the lance has pierced the chance of forgiving. In the cold, dazzling light he saw that this was the pang he had himself experienced, so far as a man’s heart can mirror the heart of God—as a puddle in the mire of the road may hold the image of one star, broken and quivering, among the myriads clustered in the firmament.—That evening many, many years ago, in his youth, when he had arrived at Berg and heard from Arnvid’s lips how she had tried to drown herself, fly from his forgiveness and his love and his burning desire to raise her up and bear her to a safe place.

  He saw Arnvid’s face tonight, as his friend admonished him: you accepted all I was able to give you, you did not break our friendship, therefore you were my best friend. He remembered Torhild—he had not seen her since the day he had had to drive her out of his house, because she bore a child under her heart, and it was his, the married man’s. He had never seen his son—could not make good the disgrace, either to the boy or to his mother. But Torhild had gone without a bitter word, without a complaint of her lot. He guessed that Torhild was so fond of him that she saw it was the last kindness she could do him, to go away uncomplaining—and that it had been her chief consolation in misfortune that she could yet do him a good deed.

  Even for poor sinners it was the worst of all when one’s friend in distress refused to accept help. In spite of his being sunk in sin and sorrow, God had let him have his happiness in peace: he had been allowed to give to Ingunn, and never had it been said to him that now the measure was full. Again it was words from his childhood’s teaching that arose, illumined so that he understood their meaning to the full: Quia apud te propitiatio est: et propter legem tuam sustinui te, Domine.3

  The strange horse began to tire under him; he halted in a field and let it recover its wind. The steam rose from its sides like silvery smoke under the moon, which now shone from the height of heaven. They were covered with rime, both he and his horse—Olav woke up and looked about him. Behind him, under the brow of the wood, lay a farm he did not recognize; before him he saw a great white surface bordered by high rushes, glittering with rime and rustling feebly in the breeze—a lake. No, he did not know where he was. He must have gone much too far inland to the eastward.

  The moon had sunk low in the south-west and had lost its power, the sky began to grow light, blue with a touch of orange on the land side, when at last Olav came out of a wood and knew where he was—he had reached some small farms in the south of the parish. The shortest way home to Hestviken was over the Horse Crag. Stiff, frozen, and deadly tired he stood stretching himself and yawning—he had dismounted to lead the poor horse over the height. Silently he caressed the strange animal, taking its muzzle in his hand. Its coat was covered with rime and frozen foam.—It was now full daylight.

  Arrived at the top of the ridge, he stopped for a moment and listened—an unwonted stillness penetrated him through all his senses: the last frost had silenced the fiord. The ice lay as far as he could see up and down, rough and greyish white. The southern wind at the beginning of the week had broken up the first sheet of ice and driven the floes inshore; the last night’s cold had bound them all together. A thin mist rose from the ground, covering everything with a downy greyness, and the air was tinged pink by the sun, which was rising behind the fog.

  The monk came into the doorway to meet him, when his horse was heard in the yard. “God be praised that you are here in time!”

  Then he stood by her bed. She lay in a doze, with her narrow yellow hands crossed upon her sunken bosom—looking like a corpse but that her pupils just moved under the filmy eyelids. With a sharp stab of pain the husband felt that soon she would lie here no more. For more than three years he had gone in and out while she lay stretched here in bed, racked with pain, unable to move more than her head and hands.—Lord Jesus Christ, had it been worth so much to him, merely to have her here alive!

  The monk talked and talked—what a happy thing it was that at last she was to be released from her sufferings, after the way she had been lying of late, with the flesh of her back raw and bloody; Patient and pious—ay, he, Brother Stevne, had prayed as he was about to administer extreme unction: “God grant we may all be as well prepared to meet death, when the
hour comes, as Mistress Ingunn.”—As soon as she had received the sacrament she had sunk into a doze—she had lain as she lay now for twenty hours, and like enough she would not come to herself again; it seemed she would be allowed to die without a struggle.

  Then he began to question Olav about his journey home—his mouth was never still—but now they must see that the master had something to keep him alive!

  The serving-maid brought in ale, bread, and a dish of steaming, freshly boiled salt ling. Olav turned sick at the nauseous, washy smell that rose from the fish and set himself against it, but the monk affectionately laid a dirty, frost-bitten hand on his shoulder and forced him. Olav felt repelled by this Brother Stefan—his frock smelt so foully, and his face had the look of a water-rat with its long, pointed nose that seemed to have no bone in it.

  At the first mouthful of food he was almost sick—his throat hurt him and his mouth filled with water. But when he had got down a bite or two, he found he was famishing. While he was eating he stared, without knowing it, at Eirik, who was busy with something in his place on the bench. When the boy noticed his father looking at him, he came up and showed what he was doing—he was so eager about it that he forgot his shyness of Olav: he had kept two pairs of shells from the walnuts his father had brought home from the town the year before, and now he had found good use for them. He was collecting the wax that dripped from the candle by his mother’s deathbed and filling the walnut-shells with it; one was for Cecilia and one for himself. Brother Stefan was at once interested in the boy’s occupation; he pulled off the lump of wax that had run down the candle and discussed with Eirik how they should prevent the shells bursting apart afterwards.

  Olav was overpowered by fatigue when he had eaten his fill. He sat with his neck leaning against the logs of the wall, the pulses throbbed in his throat and about his ears, and his eyes would not keep together when he tried to fix them upon anything—he saw the flame of the holy candle double. Now and then his eyelids closed altogether—images and thoughts whirled within him as a mist rolls and drifts along—but when he took a hold of himself and opened his eyes again, they were all forgotten. He felt numbed and empty, and the memory of the last night and all he had gone through in it was as far off as the memory of an old dream.—This untiring Brother Stevne came and pestered him again, wanting him to lie down awhile in the north bed—he would be sure to wake him if there was any change in his wife. Olav shook his head crossly and stayed where he was. Thus the hours wore on till midday.

  He had slept and dozed by turns when he saw that Brother Stefan was busy beside the dying woman. Kneeling, he held a crucifix before Ingunn’s face in one hand, while with the other he beckoned eagerly to Olav.

  Olav was there in an instant. Ingunn lay with eyes wide open; but he could not tell whether she saw anything—whether she recognized either the crucifix in the priest’s hand or himself bending over her. For a moment something like an expression came into the great, dark-blue eyes; they seemed to be seeking. Olav bent lower over his wife, the monk held the crucifix close to her face-but the feeble, fluttering disquiet was still there.

  Then the husband got up, took Eirik by the hand, and led him forward to his mother’s bed. The monk had begun to say the litany for the dying.

  “Are you looking for Eirik, Ingunn? Here he is!”

  He had put his arm about the boy’s shoulder and stood holding him close. Eirik came up to his shoulder now. Olav could not see whether Ingunn knew them.

  Then he knelt down, still with his arm around the child. Eirik was sobbing, low and painfully, as he knelt side by side with his father and said the responses.

  “Kyrie, eleison”

  “Christie, eleison,” whispered the man and the boy.

  “Kyrie, eleison—Sancta Maria—”

  “Ora pro ea—” The two kept their eyes on the dying woman. The man was watching for a sign that she knew him. The boy looked at his mother, in dismay and wonder, as the tears streamed down his cheeks and he sniffled between the responses—“ora pro e a, orate pro ea—”

  “Ornnes sancti Discipuli Domini—”

  “Orate pro ea”

  Ingunn sighed, moaning softly. Olav bent forward—no word came from her white lips. The three continued the prayer for the dying.

  “Per nativitatem tuam—”

  “Libera ei, Domine.”

  “Per crucem et passionem tuam—”

  “Libera ei, Domine.”

  She closed her eyes again; her hands slipped from each other, down to her sides. The monk crossed them again over her bosom, as he prayed:

  “Per adventum Spiritus sancti Paracliti—”

  “Libera ei, Domine.”

  —Ingunn, Ingunn, wake up again, only for a moment—so that I may see you know me—

  “Peccatores” recited the monk, and the father and son replied:

  “Te rogamus, audi nos.”

  She still breathed, and her eyelids quivered very slightly.

  “Kyrie, eleison”

  Olav remained on his knees by the bedside, holding Eirik to him, even after they had reached the end of the prayer. Inwardly he was beseeching: “Let her wake up, only for a little instant—so that we may bid each other farewell.” Although every night of these three years had been like entering the valley of death with her, he felt he could not part from her yet. Not till they had given each other one last greeting before she went out of the door.

  Eirik had laid his face on the edge of the bed; he was weeping in an agony of grief.

  Suddenly the dying woman opened her lips—Olav thought he heard her whisper his name. Quickly he bent over her. She muttered something he could not distinguish; then more clearly: “—not go forth—’tis uncertain—out yonder—Olav—do not—”

  He could not guess her meaning—whether she spoke in a dream or what. Almost without knowing it, he put his arm around Eirik, stood up, and raised the boy to his feet.

  “You must not weep so loudly,” he whispered as he led his son to his seat on the bench.

  Eirik looked up at him in despair—the child’s face was all swollen with weeping.

  “Father,” he whispered, “Father—you will not send us away from Hestviken, will you—because our mother is dead?”

  “Send away whom?” Olav asked absently.

  “Us. Me and Cecilia—”

  “No, surely—” Olav broke off, held his breath. The children—they had never entered his mind when he was thinking of all the rest last night. It took him by surprise—but he would not think of this now, would thrust it from him. As though asleep he sat down on the bench a little way from Eirik.

  He was not fit to contend with it now. But the children—he had not thought of that.

  The day wore on to nones. And little by little the inmates of the house tired of watching and waiting for the last sigh. Liv had been in once or twice with Cecilia, but as the mother lay in a doze and the child was noisy and restless, the maid had to take her out again. The last time Eirik went with her—Olav heard their voices outside.

  He had seated himself on the step by the bed. Brother Stefan was dozing at the table with his book of hours open before him. The house-folk came in quietly, knelt down and softly said a prayer, paused awhile, and quietly went out again. Olav dropped off—he did not sleep, but it was as though his head were full of grey wool instead of brains, so tired and spent was he with the strain.

  Once, when again he looked at Ingunn, he saw that her eyelids had half-opened, and underneath he had a glimpse of her eyes, sightless.

  In the first weeks after Ingunn’s death Olav could not have said when he had slept. For slept he must have at times, since there was still life in him. Toward morning he felt as if the grey fog rolled within his head, leading his thoughts astray and deranging them. Then the fog settled, grey and dense, but never so that he escaped feeling the pressure of his burden even in his light morning doze, while his thoughts were busied with the same things deep down within him, and he was awar
e of every sound in the room and out of doors. He longed to be given real sleep for once—to sink into perfect darkness and forgetfulness. But as far as he was aware, it never happened that he enjoyed a deep sleep.

  It was the thought of the children that kept him awake.

  He knew that that night as he rode home to Ingunn’s deathbed, he had formed a resolution. He had answered yea to God. “I will come, because Thou art my God and my All; I will fall at Thy feet, because I know that Thou longest to raise me up to Thee—”

  But the children—it seemed as though both God and himself had forgotten them. Until Eirik asked—he would not send them away from Hestviken, haply?

  He could not guess how the boy had come to think of such a thing. It could not have come about in any natural way.

  And then he recalled Ingunn’s last words, pondered over them:

  “—Do it not, Olav. Not go forth—’tis uncertain out yonder—”

  Perhaps she had only spoken in a dream—dreaming that he was about to venture on to unsafe ice. But it might also be that, as she lay with her soul scarce in her body, she had learned what had befallen him that night. That both she and Eirik had had knowledge of it—and both had pleaded with him.

  The children had none but himself to look to. Hallvard Steinfinnsson far away in the north at Frettastein was their nearest kinsman. And he could imagine how Hallvard would take it if he now came forward and accused himself of a secret murder twelve years old. His children would not be given a very cordial reception at their uncle’s. And no doubt it would be revealed who Eirik was.